Mise-en-Place
by callmepagliacci
Summary: I recreated his mother's recipes when he was homesick. I made meal plans when he had to gain or lose weight for a role. And when he wanted chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne for another woman he was bringing home, I made them with all the love in my heart—the love he'd never see. So I showed him with my food.
1. 1 L'Apéritif

MISE-EN-PLACE

Legal BS: The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Apéritif**

"An aperitif (the word comes from the Latin aperire, "to open") is a light, most often dry, most often modestly alcoholic beverage meant to spark the appetite without overwhelming the senses. … As for Campari itself, the drink is believed to contain rhubarb and ginseng, but I don't know for sure. What I do know is that Campari is very bitter, so bitter it's truly an acquired taste. But adding soda helps a great deal in the acquiring; in fact, a fair amount of chilled soda can open up Campari nicely, turning it into a more nuanced drink." Jim Nelson. "Spirits: The Art of the Aperitif." Food & Wine Magazine.

Negroni

1.5 oz Campari

1.5 oz sweet vermouth

1.5 oz gin

Orange slice or twist for garnish

Pour into an old-fashioned glass over ice. Stir well. Garnish and serve.

M-e-P

"You're fired, Bella."

"Wh—what?"

"You're fired," he said, sitting behind his desk. His voice was hard, but he looked tired. He couldn't look me in the eye. "Pack your shit and go."

"Why, Edward? What—"

"Tanya said you cooked her dinner last night with butter."

"No! I didn't, I swear! I haven't even bought any butter since she went on that stupid fucking diet! Edward—Mr. Cullen, please!"

"I'm sorry."

I couldn't help but scoff. I stared at my employer for a beat, but he was resolutely examining his own hand, spread out wide over the fine grain of his oak desk. The first time I realized I was in love with Edward Cullen, he had averted his eyes then, too. He'd been behaving like a gentleman then, not a coward.

"I thought I meant more to you than that." Before he could answer, and before the tears in my eyes could make good on their threat to fall, I turned and left. I ran down the hall from his office, down the stairs and through the foyer to the huge kitchen that had been my truest home for the past three years.

"Three goddamn years!" I cried out, heading straight to the liquor cabinet. I reached in and grabbed the first thing I touched: Campari.

"Hah, fucking perfect." I didn't have the time or inclination to mix up a cocktail, or even add soda water to fucking allow those herbal flavors to open up or anything else. I didn't even particularly want to use any glassware, but I had some fucking class. Unlike some cheap-dye-job strawberry-blonde silicone-enhanced on-a-fucking-diet starlets I could mention. Whore.

I poured a healthy measure into a lowball glass, sloshing some over the rim. Slamming the bottle down on the counter, I knocked the glass back. I grimaced; Campari was potent in a cocktail—on its own, it was nearly intolerably bitter.

My face reflected, indistinct, in the glossy marble countertop. Even in the poor, stone mirror my melancholy was evident. I wanted to keep drinking, but I wanted out of there even more.

"Asshole will probably make me pay for it, too, if he sees," I muttered. I capped and replaced the bottle, then walked to the sink. I washed my glass out and hated every fucking second. I put the glass in the drying rack and hated that too.

I couldn't even remember where I kept my knife roll, and that did me in. I started crying in the middle of Edward Cullen's impeccably appointed kitchen, the one I'd designed myself after two months of working for him on an electric range and three-quarters-dead oven.

Digging through the cabinets, I refused to look at the appliances I'd scrubbed to a high shine. There it was, at the back of a low shelf, dusty. Untouched since I last needed it, this spring when he'd taken me on vacation with him. We'd laughed together; I'd cooked. He'd kissed me, and then he'd taken it back.

I approached the butcher block where my knives lay. The set was mismatched. My father had bought me my first three for culinary school, and each new addition had been made as my budget allowed. I wiped my face. I refused to cry over this stupid, unrequited crush any longer.

I did as he'd suggested. I packed my shit and went.

**Author's Note:** I would like to thank Shell (aka Thimbles), who is actually a fairy, for graciously agreeing to my piteous request for a prereader. Her foodie-type perspective has been most valuable. I also need to thank Sara (abadkitty), who snuck into this fic's folder in GDocs when she was _supposed_ to be betaing Bondward. She encouraged me to finish when I was two seconds from giving up and strongly considering burning my laptop. Without her, I wouldn't have this tremendous sense of accomplishment right now: M-e-P is finished. Thank you both.


	2. 2 Les Huîtres

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Les Huîtres**

Humans have been eating oysters for at least 125,000 years. The first oyster farm was established by Sergius Orata in the first century B.C., in Italy. Later, in Britain, the same technology was used to cultivate oysters for export to elsewhere in the Republic. Traditionally, oysters are considered to be an aphrodisiac, partially because they resemble female sex organs. A team of American and Italian researchers analyzed bivalves and found they were rich in amino acids that trigger increased levels of sex hormones. Their high zinc content aids the production of testosterone.

Shuck fresh oysters and serve on the half-shell over a bed of ice with lemon juice or cocktail sauce.

M-e-P

The oyster shells _click-clacked_ together as I grabbed another out of a bowl.

"I'm sorry, all right?" Edward said from his seat on a barstool in front of the kitchen island.

I kept my back to him and my eyes on my work. I jabbed my knife under the hinge—too hard, I probably tore up the meat on that one. I checked and yep, torn. I threw it in the other bowl. It clattered against discarded shells and rejected specimens.

"I knew she was lying, I just… Ugh!" He'd either be pulling his hair or rubbing his forehead now. I didn't think he was quite frustrated enough yet to be pinching the bridge of his nose, but if I kept up the silent treatment, I might get him there.

"I broke up with Tanya."

"Mmhmm." I'd heard. He didn't usually bother with the whole clichéd 'aphrodisiac' spread unless he was trying to impress a new conquest. I'd know. This wasn't my first time preparing this particular meal. I even remembered all those bitches' names.

"What, _Entertainment Tonight_?"

Nope, _Extra_. Whatever. Reach; _click-clack_; insert the knife; wiggle; _pop!_; angle the knife and slide it around; _squich_; pull the top shell off, discard; clatter. I meticulously arranged the halved oyster on a platter of chilled rock salt.

"I don't think I'll date an actress again."

I nodded. Another oyster, I had seventeen now. Another, and another.

"My date tonight's a costume designer."

I nodded again. None of my business. I didn't care.

"Fuck's sake, say something!"

Taking a deep breath, I placed the twenty-fourth oyster neatly in its place. "I'm going to serve these with lemon wedges and cocktail sauce." I could hear him muttering behind me. Oh, yeah. We were at bridge-of-the-nose pinching now.

I had to guard my heart.

"I know _from experience_ you prefer fresh horseradish mixed in, Mr. Cullen but—" I said, walking to the fridge. I opened the door and stuck my head inside, never looking at him.

"Mister Cul—what?"

"—Most palates find fresh horseradish overpowering. Like your _date's_. I really think you should let me use the stuff out of the jar." I held up a small glass container of the white root. I was full of shit, and I didn't care. _Costume designer_.

I grabbed the ketchup from the fridge door and slammed it shut. I found the Worcestershire and brought it back to my station and began measuring out the ingredients into a small mixing bowl.

His hand was tentative on my upper arm, warm through the crisp chef's whites I hadn't felt the need to wear in his house for years. I hadn't heard him get up. I inhaled sharply; exhaled slowly. I counted in my head. Three seconds Edward's hand lingered.

"Hey. Hey, I'm sorry. I was wrong." The comforting warmth radiating from his body into mine was a mockery of my feelings for him, but still I welcomed it. As much as I wished my feelings for Edward would go away, they wouldn't. I'd been mentally berating him all week, but a light touch on my arm and he sent my stomach fluttering. I could deny neither that I loved him nor that I was a fool for doing so.

I realized I was leaning into him and straightened. I looked at the jar of prepared horseradish.

"I'll add in some fresh for you as well, Mr. Cullen." I smiled, and stepped carefully around him, going back to the fridge.

"Bella, you haven't called me that in years."

"Mmhmm," I hummed, spying the champagne chilling next to the chocolate-covered strawberries I'd dipped for Edward earlier. I asked over my shoulder, "Your date will be here any minute now. Want me to open the champagne?"

"Nah, I'll pop the cork by myself tonight."

I couldn't help it, I turned and laughed at him. Judging by his expression, his double-entendre was unintentional.

"Maybe you could _saber it_. Remember: long, firm strokes. A little gushing fluid is expected," I teased.

He chuckled with me. Smiling, but tentative in his movements, he walked over to me and reached over my shoulder, pushing the fridge door shut. The movement boxed me in, my back against the appliance. He looked at me, searching, and I wasn't breathing. Edward sighed. He dropped his hand, his skin squeaking against the stainless steel. Instead of returning it to his side, Edward wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into an embrace. He leaned down and murmured in my ear, his cheek brushing against my temple.

"You do mean more to me, Bella." He released me and walked out of the kitchen.

The next day, I gleefully puréed the untouched decorated strawberries. I made ice cream, and it was delicious.


	3. 3 Amuse-Bouche

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Amuse-Bouche**

An amuse-bouche [ah-myooze boosh] or amuse-gueule [ah-myooze goole] is a single, bite-sized hors d'œuvre. Amuse-bouches are different from appetizers in that they are not ordered from a menu by patrons, but, when served, are done so for free and according to the chef's selection alone. These, often accompanied by a complementing wine, are served both to prepare the guest for the meal and to offer a glimpse into the chef's approach to cooking.

Roasted Olives with Fennel and Lemon

8 ounces imported black olives, such as Kalamata

4 garlic cloves, peeled and sliced

1/2 lemon, scrubbed and thinly sliced

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

1 teaspoon fennel seeds

Pinch of crushed red pepper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. In a 8-inch baking pan, spread the olives, garlic slices, and lemon slices. Drizzle with the olive oil and sprinkle with the fennel seeds and red pepper. Bake for 45 minutes, stirring the olives at least 3 times. Remove from oven and store in the refrigerator.

M-e-P

"So… what are you doing, again?"

Edward was sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island, watching me cook. He'd been doing so almost every day in the week since begged me to come back to work for him. Sometimes he worked on his laptop, others he read an endless pile of scripts. One afternoon he laughed with me while I talked shit about the "cheftestants"—and the judges—on _Chopped_.

"I'm roasting olives for you to snack on, so the next time you're craving salt, you don't get into the Lays and blow your workout for that day."

"Oh, come on, that was one time!"

"Mmhmm, it was a fourteen-ounce bag," I said, and paused. I added, "Edward."

I had a half sheet pan out, covered in a silicone mat. I laid down the base of aromatics, and reached for the quart-size container of black olives, not looking at him. The flush was too evident on my cheeks, and I had no overheated kitchen to explain it away. _That reminds me_—I moved to preheat the oven.

"I don't think I've ever had roasted olives before," he said after a moment.

"Yeah. I actually don't like olives very much when they're just like this," I said, holding up the takeout container, "just marinated. There's a… bitterness to them that I don't like."

I drained off the little bit of marinating liquid. The quiet wasn't comfortable, something new for us. Then again, he never watched me in the kitchen before, either.

"Roasting them develops the sugars in the olives, and mellows the salt. So the bitterness backs off, in terms of your palate. It's a more balanced, nuanced taste. The savory flavors are more prominent, and if I get the timing right, a little browning will make them sweet, which counters the tang of the vinegar. I, uh, I'm making a double batch, so I can make tapenade later, for your meeting with your agent. That's a spread you, you know, spread on bread. Which I'll make, too. The bread."

Finally, _finally _I made myself shut up. Way to dazzle him with your sparkling wit and culinary rapport.

"Why'd you become a chef, Bella?"

"Huh?" My hand jerked in surprise, and a few olives went rolling across the counter. I swore and went after them before they fell on the floor. I popped one in my mouth. I looked up at Edward, and he was watching me attentively. Slowly, I walked over to him and held out my hand, offering him the escaped olives. My posture was probably not unlike that of a small child approaching a horse for the first time, or an elephant. An animal that, despite your parents' assurances that it's tame, still has the ability to trample you.

He took the olives from my opened palm and brought them to his mouth. The scene was surreal. Edward was a movie star for a reason—he exuded that "it" quality that those industry types talk about. Magnetism, or charisma. Of course he was incredibly handsome, all angles and hard masculine lines, but more than that. He had a _presence_ and it was commanding. It was fucking sexy, is what it was.

But here we were, sitting in his kitchen, sharing this incredibly domestic, ordinary moment.

"Bella?" he asked, after swallowing. I looked into his eyes, green like fennel, and couldn't deny him.

"I've told you a little about my mom, right? She was… flighty, I suppose is the word," I said, walking back to the pan of olives. I drizzled some extra-virgin olive oil over top. I reached for the red pepper flakes, and had an idea.

"Or, depending on who you ask, borderline negligent," I added, reaching into the cabinet and searching for what I wanted. Triumphant, I held up a container with striking black kanji on the label. I held it up to Edward for approval.

"Seven-spice powder?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes. _Shichimi tōgarashi_. Some _oomph_ for you, I know you like it hot. You're such a guy," I laughed, but he didn't join. He looked a little shocked. Maybe I misread the new playful mood?

"Um, so, anyways. From a young age, I did all the cooking. To be honest, I didn't really enjoy it. It was another burden, like the laundry or paying the bills, which I did, too." I eased the lid off the tin and carefully shook out a couple tablespoons' worth of the spicy seasoning over the olives. I pulled open the oven door and bending over, slid the tray in. Edward was muttering behind me, and I guessed he was getting impatient to hear the rest of my story.

"My mom would make these really bizarre combinations—she'd cook a whole meal without tasting a thing. I think the worst was chicken with canned prunes and instant oatmeal. I don't… I can't even begin to explain that." Turning to lean against the counter, facing him, I wiped my hands on the tea towel over my shoulder.

"Ew!" Edward shuddered theatrically.

"You're such a hack. Or maybe 'ham' is a better term for this conversation?"

"Very punny."

I rolled my eyes and shoved off the counter. I reached for the bowl of bread dough I had proofing, checking to see if it had risen enough. My head rolled back on my shoulders, and I tried to let the kinks from working over a counter all day fall out of my muscles.

"But one day, just a few weeks before I was supposed to leave for Charlie's, she came in the living room and handed me a bowl of ice cream. I didn't know she'd made… additions to it."

"Cod liver oil and radishes?"

"Ha ha, no. She put curry powder and golden raisins on chocolate ice cream. It was delicious." I turned to look at him again. "You'd never think it'd work, right? It shouldn't have been good, but it was. And I mean, the execution was off, with the dry powder and cold ice cream, but the idea… I thought it was genius. I couldn't stop thinking about it, how it tasted. My mind spun with different flavor combinations, different recipes and possibilities, things to try.

"You have to understand, Edward," I said, looking down, "that until that point, I hadn't created a damn thing. I lived my life largely in my imagination, and in the pages of my favorite books. I never wrote anything, or made anything, though. I knew I wanted to.

"So when I saw that Charlie couldn't cook either, I gladly took on the task. I looked at it like an opportunity, a chance to explore this new thing I maybe loved. And I did love it. I went to work at a restaurant—the only restaurant—in Forks. It was a hard sell, but I managed to convince Charlie to let me apply to culinary school instead of 'real' college. And… that was it."

Feeling vulnerable, I turned once more and pulled the dampish towel off the proofing bread dough. I started punching it down; the bowl rattled against the counter as I worked the dough. My punches made dull, thwacky sounds, like a meathead getting his ass beat in a B action movie. To make this naked feeling go away, I needed a little reciprocity.

"Why did you become an actor?"

"Well, sometimes it's easier being other people when you don't know who you are, or… what you want."

His stool scraped against the tile floor, and I heard his bare feet slap softly against the travertine as he left the room. I kept punching the dough.


	4. 4 Entrée

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Entrée**

An entrée (French for "entrance"), in traditional parlance, is a course served before the main dish, or in between two principal courses. The use of the word to refer to the main course is largely a North American one.

In The French Chef Cookbook, Julia Child and her co-authors outlined the character of such entrées, which–when they did not precede a roast–might serve as the main course of a luncheon, in a chapter that included quiches; tarts and gratins; soufflés and timbales; gnocchi; quenelles and crêpes.

Cheese Soufflé

Butter, room temperature, for greasing the soufflé

2 tbsp grated Parmesan

1 1/2 oz (3 tbsp) butter

3 tbsp flour

1 tsp dry mustard

1/2 tsp garlic powder

1/8 tsp kosher salt

1 1/3 cups milk, hot

4 large egg yolks (2 1/2 oz by weight)

6 oz sharp Cheddar

5 egg whites plus 1 tbsp water (5 1/2 oz by weight plus 1/2 oz water)

1/2 tsp cream of tartar

Use room temperature butter to grease an 8-inch soufflé mold (a large ramekin with high sides). Add the grated Parmesan and roll around the mold to cover the sides. Cover with plastic wrap and place into the freezer for 5 minutes. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. In a small saucepan, heat the butter. Allow all of the water to cook out. In a separate bowl combine the flour, dry mustard, garlic powder, and kosher salt. Whisk this mixture into the melted butter. Cook for 2 minutes. Whisk in the hot milk and turn the heat to high. Once the mixture reaches a boil, remove from the heat. In a separate bowl, beat the egg yolks to a creamy consistency. Temper the yolks into the milk mixture, constantly whisking. Remove from the heat and add the cheese. Whisk until incorporated. In a separate bowl, using a hand mixer, whip the egg whites and cream of tartar until glossy and firm. Add 1/4 of the mixture to the base. Continue to add the whites by thirds, folding very gently. Pour the mixture into the soufflé. Fill the soufflé to 1/2-inch from the top. Place on an aluminum pie pan. Bake in the oven for 35 minutes.

M-e-P

"My old nemesis. We meet again."

I stared at the bowls of egg-and-milk and egg whites, mentally psyching myself up for battle. Unless practiced constantly, even trained chefs had problems with soufflés. Finicky French preparations like this were never my forte, but I needed a distraction, and there was little in my repertoire that required focus like folding in egg whites.

"Talking to the food again?" Edward asked, and I jumped, dropping my raised spatula.

"Jesus fuck, Edward! You scared the shit outta me. You can't do that around egg whites," I said, gesturing to the two bowls.

"Oh, um, right. Hey, do you have snacks or something for my meeting with Vicky?"

"Yeah, there's that tapenade in the fridge, just put it in a bowl, and I've got baguette slices I toasted a minute ago, cooling over there."

"That's great. But…" Edward looked discomfited.

"But?"

"The bread, Bella. Vicky's still doing the no-carbs thing."

"Christ, that's right, I remember," I said, eyeing the egg whites I'd mercilessly beaten stiff. I'd have to come up with something quickly.

I moved to open the fridge and started digging around. I wasn't scheduled to go shopping again until the end of the week, so we still had a lot of options—I just wasn't sure what would work. I was rifling through the items on the shelf when Edward asked, "So, what're you making?"

"Soufflé. A-ha!" I emerged, grinning, holding a head of endive. Edward smiled politely at me, and I shook my head. At least he was kind enough to pretend to be interested in my eureka moment.

I grabbed a cutting board and my chef's knife, quickly lopping off the butt of the greens. I stoppered the sink and turned the cold tap on. Glancing over at my egg whites, I started drumming my fingers on the counter.

"Hey, uh, can I give you a hand with something?" Now he looked even more uncomfortable, a condition I probably didn't improve much by staring at him.

"Help me cook? Edward, Vicky made you hire me because you were living on instant ramen and delivery pizza. And you set your house on fire making microwave popcorn."

"The microwave malfunctioned," he said, but he didn't look chastened. Edward was smiling.

"Vicky told _me_," I said. I shut the water off and reached in the full sink. I pulled the endive leaves apart. "That the firemen told _her_ that you'd set the timer for twenty minutes and wandered off." The bruised pieces of vegetable made dull _thuck_-ing sounds as I tossed them on the counter.

"I thought I'd set it for two minutes!"

"Sure, Edward. Hey, actually, can you grab me the whole bin of ice from the freezer? Dump some in the sink there," I said, wiping my hands.

He bent over, and his ass in those jeans thoroughly fucked any hope of keeping myself busy with work. When Edward reached into the freezer, his T-shirt rode up a little, the black fabric making the skin of his lower back above his bunched-up boxers look deliciously pale. I looked away before he caught me—hopefully. He dumped the bin of ice into the sink, but from too high up, and we both got splashed.

"Fuck!"

"Dammit," he said, dropping the plastic bin on the counter. I watched as he tugged at the large spot of darker black blooming on his stomach. It made a wet _squelch_ sound when he pulled it away from the hard skin of his abdomen; he froze, and the wet material slid free of his thumb-and-forefinger grip, sticking to his stomach again. I looked up at him, but he was staring at my—_oh, shit_. My nipples were clearly visible through the damp fabric of my whites. Turning away, I hastily reached for my left shoulder and began unbuttoning the placket. At least I was blushing so hard I didn't feel cold anymore.

His reaction was rather different from the last time something like this happened.

"I'll, uh, I'll…" I shrugged out of the jacket and tossed it on the counter. I rearranged my tank top, trying to cover up, but it was damp, too. I dabbed at the wetness with a my dish towel as I walked to the pantry, where I kept spare whites and shirts—cooking is messy work.

I turned around after having grabbed a new shirt and whites jacket. Edward's eyes were laser-focused on my chest. His arm was still suspended awkwardly in front of him, as if he were playing an invisible upright bass.

"Edward," I said in my best my-eyes-are-up-here voice. His eyes snapped up, widened, and then flickered away. Ha! The tips of his ears turned pink!

"I'm going to change, and you need to stay out of the kitchen for the next hour or so."

"Why?" He sounded confused, and a little hurt.

"Soufflés are temperamental creatures. No loud noises, vibrations. Things like that will make it fall. Besides, your meeting with your manager will take up most of that time. What's it about, anyways?"

He grinned. "Secret celebrity stuff."

I tossed the dish towel at him—missing by a mile—and he laughed at me. "_Out_, Cullen!" Holding up his hands, he tried to look innocent, but he was grinning mischievously. He reached behind him and opened the fridge, finally turning to look inside. He grabbed the plastic container of the olive spread and started walking towards the living room.

"Get a bowl, you slob!"

"Yes, dear," he said, winking at me as he fetched one from the cabinet. There was a stupid little flutter in my stomach. Stupid. I knew he was joking, there was nothing flutter-worthy about it.

Still, I left the pantry doors open a crack as I changed, hoping he'd catch a glance, despite the impossible angle from the living room. Hope is, by definition, irrational. That very hope shocked me, revealing just how inadequate I'd been in my attempts to get over Edward. Resolutely, I grabbed the spare whites jacket off its hanger—unable to remember when I'd even put it there—and slid it on. Each button created a little more distance.

I stalked out of the pantry and stared the egg whites down. Focus. I started this to get my mind off of him, and now I needed to do that more than ever. I grabbed a spatula and slid it gently into the stiff egg whites, pulling off a dollop. They hadn't lost much volume during the delay, and I was glad. Folding the whites into the base, I did my best to minimize the unavoidable loss of air bubbles. The mixture whispered to me as I folded the egg whites in; the color dimmed from a canary hue to a tawnier lemon-yellow. I'd just slid it into the oven when I heard Vicky's heels _click-clack_ing on the marble floors.

"Hi, Bella. Smells good," she said, smiling at me. I got the sense that Edward's manager didn't like me very much, and I couldn't understand why. She was pleasant when I started working for him, but had grown distant in the time since. There was an undercurrent of menace to everything she did—probably why she was so good at her job. I would think twice before crossing her.

In her arms was a thick binder, bits of different fabrics poking out. Clutched in one hand was her smartphone, and the other held her large purse-slash-briefcase. She laid everything on the counter.

"Thanks, Vicky. Edward's in the living room. I'll be in in a sec, I made some stuff for you guys to eat," I said, trying to be polite. She just nodded, an eyebrow slightly raised. She walked off towards the living room, binder and phone in her hands. I heard Edward greet her as I began towel-drying the endive leaves. I made a platter—greens for her, bread for him—and carried it into the living room. The two of them were arguing about cuts and swatches, passing sketches back and forth: Edward had a premiere coming up, and he needed to choose a suit to wear. I didn't really understand—usually he picked from a rack and then had fittings, I thought, but this was a part of his life I simply was not privy to.

I worked on the dishes while the soufflé rose. The repetitive scrubbing-rinsing-scrubbing maintained the sense of distraction I'd created earlier. I wasn't thinking about Edward, about my feelings for him—or his lack thereof—or that his only date since breaking it off with Tanya had been an unmitigated disaster, apparently. They'd barely even touched the champagne. I was thinking of recipes that called for flat sparkling wines when I heard Victoria's voice insisting that Edward be reasonable about something.

"No, you can't take your mom or your sister-in-law to the premiere. The gay rumors will start up again."

"Fuck's sake, even after all that shit with Tanya?"

"Especially after all that shit with Tanya." I was trying not to eavesdrop, honestly, but their voices carried.

"No, Vicky. No more actresses, or models, or pop starlets. I'm done. There's no one I want, no one like that. I'll go alone, and just work the 'confirmed bachelor' thing."

_There's no one I want_… The kitchen's light was harsh in my eyes. I heard the binder slam shut. Through the oven window, I saw the soufflé fall, deflated and crumpled in on itself.


	5. 5 Potage

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Potage**

Old English stocc "stump, post, stake, tree trunk, log," also "pillory" (usually plural, stocks), from Proto-Germanic *stukkaz "tree trunk" (cf. Old Norse stokkr "block of wood, trunk of a tree," Old Saxon, Old Frisian stok, Middle Dutch stoc "tree trunk, stump," Dutch stok "stick, cane," Old High German stoc "tree trunk, stick," German Stock "stick, cane;" also Dutch stuk, German Stück "piece"), from Proto Indo-European *(s)teu- (see steep (adj.)).

Meaning "broth made by boiling meat or vegetables" is from 1764.

Every diner is offered a choice of clear or thick soup.

Chicken Broth

4 lb. chicken carcasses, cleaned, including the necks

1 large onion, quartered

4 carrots, scrubbed clean, cut into large chunks

4 celery stalks, cut into large chunks

1 leek, white part only, cut in half lengthwise (leeks are notoriously difficult to clean, so soak well beforehand)

10 sprigs each fresh thyme and parsley

2 bay leaves

2 whole cloves garlic, peeled

Small handful whole black peppercorns

Appx. 2 gallons cold water

Place all ingredients in a large stock pot, at least 12 quarts. Place a metal steamer basket upside-down on top of the ingredients. Pour water over. Cook on high until bubbles start to break the surface of the liquid. Turn the head down to medium low so the liquid gently simmers. Skim the broth frequently, as needed. Simmer uncovered for 6-8 hours, adding water as needed to keep the meat and vegetables submerged. Strain the broth before serving or storing.

To make chicken soup: add 3/4 cup diced onion, 3/4 cup sliced celery, and 1 carrot, sliced into rounds to 4 cups of boiling chicken stock. Simmer for 2 minutes. Pour over cooked noodles, add chopped fresh herbs, such as parsley and tarragon, to taste.

M-e-P

"I'm dying."

"You're not dying, Edward."

"Well, then, I wanna be."

"Men are such babies when they're sick, I swear. Charlie was the same way. Can I make you something to eat, some broth maybe?"

A groan was my only answer. Edward was lying on his back in his huge bed, an arm thrown over his eyes and a white sheet tangled around his leg. His position stretched him out, making his lean frame look even longer. His bicep was flexed, up by his ear; his chest rose and fell as he breathed. His sleep pants sat tauntingly low on his hips and I had to look away. It was rare that I saw him so undressed. A memory—Edward, white sand stuck to his shoulder, leaning toward me in the firelight—bubbled to the surface. I shoved it back down.

I sighed. He still may have looked like the Vitruvian man to me, but Edward was clearly suffering. His nose was red, and those full lips were chapped. Sweat shone on his upper chest.

"How about a shower, then?"

"I don't think I can stand that long," he said, moving his arm behind his head. His eyes were still closed.

"You'll feel better if you get cleaned up." Edward shook his head.

I stood up from my place next to him, and made to go to the kitchen. Grabbing my hand, his reaction was quick, but his grip, weak.

"Stay with me?"

"Sure," I said, smiling at the little boy looking at me through a man's eyes. "Just lemme run to the kitchen, grab a few things."

He nodded, closed his eyes, and released my hand. I watched him for a second, and a beam of sunlight peeked through the parted curtains, falling across his forehead and left eye. He scrunched up his forehead, squinting, and made a disgruntled noise. It was kind of adorable. After I pulled the curtains all the way shut, I hurried down to the kitchen. I made a quick note to pick up the ingredients for chicken soup to make tomorrow, but for now some Saltines seemed like the best idea. I knew I had some basic stock in the freezer, maybe I could tempt him with it around dinnertime. I filled up the electric kettle and put a half-dozen hibiscus-citrus teabags in a pitcher. Waiting, tapping my foot, for the water to boil, I added more honey to the pitcher than was probably healthy.

My mind drifted as the water heated. Memories of my time with Edward floated through my mind, the flakes of an almost-settled snow globe. I thought of the first moment I knew my crush on Edward was something _more_. He'd been complaining that he missed his family in Chicago. He missed playing in the snow with his brothers and heavy, hot food to chase away the cold. I called his mother and got her recipe for cottage fried potatoes. I'd been soaking the potatoes; I needed more counter space; I dropped the heavy container, and water and potatoes went everywhere. Edward ran in when he heard the noise and my swearing. He averted his eyes and handed me a dishtowel.

Such an inconsequential moment. No heartfelt confessions, no grand gestures, no trumpeting fanfare like in the type of movie Edward starred in at the time. Just a simple thing. It was then that I knew that my feelings for Edward were more than just attraction, that I loved him.

No. Just, no. I refused to think about it anymore. I saw the kind of women he dated. I saw the way he looked—and didn't look—at me. He'd never want me the way I wanted him. Not sober, not meaning it.

The water boiled and I made myself focus. I'd buried my feelings for so long that hiding them again came easily. As I poured the hot water over the teabags, my eyes kept flicking up, in the direction where I knew Edward was resting. I didn't wait for the tea to steep, I just threw the crackers and a mug into a large bowl and grabbed the pitcher and headed back upstairs.

When I entered the unapologetically masculine bedroom again, Edward had the comforter wrapped around him; he was curled up in a tight ball, shaking.

"I'm cold now," he said in a small voice. I rushed in, putting the pitcher on his nightstand and the bowl on the floor by my feet. With one hand on his arm, I tugged on the little paper tags until I judged the steeping liquid was dark enough: a brilliant fuchsia. It was a meditative action.

"That smells good," Edward said, his voice sounding croaky.

"Mmhmm," I said, pouring a mug full. "Lots of vitamin C. Come on, sit up, drink." He struggled, so I wrapped my arm around his shoulders to help him up. God, he was weak, and much too warm. I handed him the mug, but quickly moved my hand back to help him support it. I slid my hand across his shoulders, his neck, and into the short hair at the back of his head. Damp with sweat, the color was more brunet than his usual color—like long-unused copper cookware—but it was still soft between my fingers. Edward was staring at me so intently; I looked down and watched his throat move, wavelike, as he swallowed.

"Good?" I asked. He nodded. Not meeting his eyes, I set the mug on the nightstand and bent over to pick up the bowl. As I handed him the crackers, I said, "Try to eat a few, okay? I'll be right back."

I paced into the attached bathroom, passing the TV playing a war documentary at low volume. I eyeballed the sink, realizing I'd never be able to fit the bowl in there to fill it up. The bath had a showerhead-thing on a hose, though. I tested the water temperature on the inside of my wrist and tried to calm my breathing, tried to make my expression reflect anything other than hopeless, desperate adoration of the man in the next room.

This was okay. I mean, it certainly wasn't my job to care for Edward, but he needed help. I could call a nurse—I'm sure his manager knew of a discreet service. Someone who wouldn't ogle, or freak out, or ask for his autograph. But how long would it take? He needed someone _now_. Besides, a nurse wouldn't be able to make the soup right. It had to be me.

Resolved, I lifted the bowl out of the tub and set it on the counter. I searched around until I found a clean washcloth and tossed it in my makeshift washbasin. I walked back into Edward's bedroom, measuring each step against the slosh of the water in the bowl.

Sitting exactly as I left him, the covers bunched under his arms, Edward watched me set the basin down on the floor. I wrung the washcloth out.

"I'm gonna get you cleaned up. You're all sweaty." Edward inhaled sharply. I bit my lip. Why was he acting like this? Because he's sick?

Hoping to kill the intense mood—afraid I'd said too much—I added, "My, um, mom did this for me when I was sick as a kid."

It didn't work. I glanced up, double-checking that this was okay, and he still had _that look_ on his face. I've seen that look once before, and I didn't think I could take the ramifications of seeing it again. I only let myself think about my task, about caring for him—not what it meant.

I took his hand—so large in mine—and stretched his right arm out. After I'd squeezed the washcloth hard, getting out as much of the excess water as I could, I brought it against his skin. His entire arm broke out in goosebumps.

"Too cold?"

His fingers flexed. "No. Just right."

I nodded. I gently washed his forearm in slow, up-and-down strokes. I rinsed and wrung out the cloth, and washed his upper arm. Edward shifted a little, and the comforter slid down his stomach. Gently as I could, I passed the washcloth under his arm, but he still winced.

"Your glands… Edward, I'm going to call the doctor."

"No!" He gripped my hand again, but his strength waned right away. "No, not yet. Tomorrow, if I'm not feeling better."

"Okay, okay." Rinse, wring out. I felt the ridges of his collarbone under my fingers, the damp cloth rough in between our skins. It seemed like I could feel every last fiber against the pads of my fingers. Over his chest; the subtle definition to his wiry muscles which twitched at my touch. My hand on his abdomen rose and fell with his breath. I edged the comforter down, revealing more of his smooth, pale skin. When the V of Edward's abs was visible—and the dark brown lick of coarse hair peeking out from the waistband of his sleep pants—I pulled my hand away. His breath caught.

I took my time re-wetting and wringing out the washcloth again. I needed to get ahold of myself. Edward was acting like he was _aroused_ by this, but was it me or the act itself? No, it had to be the latter. He'd been very clear.

I returned to washing his chest, sweeping the rag up his left side. A momentary boldness, or maybe my own innate curiosity, inspired me to brush over his hard nipple. He gasped. Sneaking a peek at him through my lashes, I saw his gaze was fixed on my hand. Rinsed, wrung out.

I worked my way down his left arm, enjoying the heavy feeling of his bicep under my palm. The crook of his elbow was ticklish, and Edward squirmed slightly. I smiled at him.

"Here, lemme get your back, and then all done, 'kay? Lean forward."

"Give me a hand?" I wrapped my arms around him as I had before, wondering if maybe he was milking it a little. And then he rested his hot cheek on my shoulder, his nose nuzzled into my neck, and I didn't care anymore. Warm and soft, I could feel his breath against my throat. His arms were around my waist, not loose but not tight either. Edward breathed in deeply, and so did I.

I washed his back, tracing each long muscle and every protrusion of his curved-over spine. I grazed one of the indentations between his hipbones and felt him shiver. His skin was so warm.

There was a tug on the end of my long braid—Edward was pulling the elastic out. He ran his fingers through the plait, loosening my hair.

"What—"

"You never wear your hair down," he said, and I felt him bring a lock up to his nose and inhale. "Last time I saw it down…"

Yeah. I tossed the rag into the bowl of cooling water and awkwardly patted his back.

"All done." He leaned back, but didn't let go of my waist. His grip tightened. His palms burned on my lower back.

Meeting his eyes was a mistake. His expression was intense: desirous and focused. He licked his lips, and I knew he was going to kiss me.

_His eyes reflecting wickedly in the bonfire's flickering light. Licking his lips. Leaning forward, pressing his lips to mine. Kissing me. Slipping his tongue in my mouth. His hands gripping my hair. Pulling me onto his lap. Making out like teenagers. Telling me he didn't mean it. Telling me he was drunk. Telling me he doesn't want me like that. Him turning his back. _

"Don't do that to me again," I whispered as he leaned in. Edward froze for a second, then pulled away. He looked unsure; resigned and hurt. Realization of what I'd said, how he could've taken it, hit me hard, and I kicked myself mentally. So stupid. Even if he threw me away again, another kiss like the first might be worth it. He was leaning back, and I started to stammer.

"No, no, that's not what I meant—"

"Shh, Bella, it's all right. I know," he said, reclining again. I thought he was pushing me away, and my eyes pricked—but his arms remained tight around my waist. He pulled me down and across his body, then rolled over, taking me with him. I shifted around until my back was comfortably pressed against his chest.

Making sense of this turn of events was a struggle.

"Stay with me. Please, Bella. I'll—I'll be better soon. Please stay with me."

"Of course, Edward."

I watched the History Channel all afternoon with Edward sleeping, wrapped around me, his hand on my stomach.

**AN:** This update is dedicated to my beta, Sara (abadkitty on Twitter) for her birthday today. Everyone please wish her a good one.


	6. 6 Poisson

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Poisson**

To filet a serving of Dover sole tableside, start with the fish on a platter. Using a small, flat knife, make a cut near the tail. Slide the knife under the filet, and using the backbone as a guide, glide it under the meat. Carefully, with a spoon or spatula, lift the filet and transfer to a plate. Repeat with the other filet. Discard the backbone.

Grilled Rum-Soaked Fish

4 filets of sweet white fish, such as tilapia

Juice of 4 limes (appx. 8 tbsp)

1 1/2C pineapple juice

1/2C dark rum

2 tbsp cilantro, finely chopped

1 tsp garlic, finely chopped

Pinches salt and pepper, to taste

Rinse the fish, pat dry. In a large, non-reactive bowl, add the other ingredients, stirring to combine. Place the fish filets in the bowl, cover, and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, but not more than 3. Grill the fish filets and serve with Mango Lime Relish.

Mango Lime Relish

2 large ripe mangoes, peeled and finely diced

1/2 medium onion, finely chopped

1/2 red bell pepper, finely diced

2 serrano peppers, minced

1/4 cup fresh lime juice

2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh mint leaves

1/4 teaspoon salt

Mix all the ingredients together in a bowl. Let stand 30 minutes to an hour before serving at room temperature.

M-e-P

_**SIX MONTHS AGO**_

I stood over the grill, fanning the smoke as I waited for the marks criss-crossing the fish to darken enough. The wood, just a touch of green left in it, hissed as it burned. Exotic aromatics filled my nose; laughter reached my ears. I looked up. Edward, his brothers, and their friends were playing soccer on the beach. Their wives and girlfriends were scattered: some cheering on their men; some lounging in the sand a distance away; a few others still in town, shopping. A flash of red-gold caught my eye. Edward jogged in front of the sun, chasing his opponent. It was evening, but the tropical summer sun was still afternoon-high and its light shone on his skin, already starting to turn pink despite his many, generous applications of sunscreen. (I'd watched a time or three—surreptitiously, I hoped). The fillets were opaque on the outside and the hatch marks were black. I pulled them off the grill and placed them onto a baking sheet. With one last glance at the roughhousing boys, I walked back into the kitchen.

After I slid the fish into the oven to finish cooking, I glanced around. I was at a loss. There was nothing for me to do, and idleness was foreign to me. The relish was resting. The fridge was stocked—the resort's concierge had seen to that. Also provided by the resort was a personal chef who had come every day this week around midday to cook lunch and prepare re-heatable dinners. I'd had more free time than I've been accustomed to dealing with in years; I'd had to cajole her and Edward into letting me cook tonight.

So I'd read, tried not to sunburn, watched Edward, and felt very much the odd-man-out. This was an annual trip Edward took with his family and oldest friends. I didn't understand why he'd insisted I come along if it wasn't to cook. Edward had tried to include me, but I wasn't enough of a tomboy to play sports with him and the guys, and I was too much of one to get along with their better halves. I didn't care much about football; I cared even less about fashion shows and the hot new facialist. While I sat by myself, I wondered if Edward was more than just oblivious. Maybe he had a cruel streak.

"Hey, Bella?" There he was, standing under the high arch that separated the kitchen from the patio, and the beach beyond it. His face was flushed with sun and excitement. He looked gorgeous and happy and out of my league. "The guys want to start a bonfire. Wanna come sit with us?"

"Um, sure, I guess." It's strange how it's possible to feel so lonely when surrounded by people.

"Do we have any marshmallows or anything to cook out?" Oh. Right, of course. The food.

"No, I don't think so." Looking away, I spotted a bowl of tropical fruit sitting on the kitchen counter. "Ha! But we do have something better." I grinned up at him, pleased with my culinary ad lib. I grabbed the pineapple from the bowl and brought it over to my workstation. Over the sound of rummaging through cupboards, I called over my shoulder, "This is supposed to be served with a chocolate sauce, but we don't have any good chocolate… or… hmm, nope, no double cream. We've got the rum, though." I laughed. The prospect of a new task—and a recipe I'd been wanting to try—made me giddy.

"What is 'this,' exactly?"

"Oh, grilled pineapple," I said, grabbing a cutting board and a chef's knife from the block. It wasn't mine—I couldn't bring them on the plane—and it felt strange in my hand.

"Grilled fruit, really?" His voice sounded a little wary, but not judgmental.

"Yeah." I began to clean the pineapple. "I'll skewer pieces—we had shrimp kebabs the other night, I know we have skewers around here somewhere… I'll cover the pieces in sugar and then we'll grill them. The sugar'll caramelize, like the pineapple wasn't sweet enough already. Just trust me, Edward."

"I do. I do trust you," he said, his voice much closer than it was before. I looked up and Edward was standing not even an arm's length away from me, looking thoughtful. "You didn't have to make dinner tonight, Bella."

"I know that, I wanted to." The knife made a _shick_ sound as I sliced off the thick pineapple skin. _Shick, shick, shick_. "I needed something to do."

Edward sighed. "I—well, thank you. Come on out when you're done."

"I will," I said, struggling to get the knife through the thick, fibrous core. It needed to be sharpened, someone was going to hurt themselves.

"Hey, Bella?" I heard the fridge open, but I didn't want to take my eyes off my work to see what Edward was doing. From the sound of clinking glass, I'd guess he was grabbing another six-pack for the boys.

"Yeah?" Finally, I got the knife through.

"Thanks for coming along. I'm glad you did."

"Me too."

I grabbed a paring knife and sliced the core out of the pineapple, a stupid grin on my face.

"Look!"

One of Edward's friends, a blond named Mike, pointed to the red sun-disk, half-hidden by the bathwater-warm Caribbean. A glowing, indistinct, green orb shimmered above the sun. We watched as it winked at us, then disappeared. The bonfire crackled and snapped in the center of a loose circle of people, arranged by couple—with Edward to my left. I tried not to think too hard about that.

"Is'a green flasssshhh," another of Edward's friends slurred, apparently having gotten into the rum I didn't need. In fact, there were a multitude of empty liquor and beer bottles strewn about. I wondered if Edward would be upset if I picked them up.

"You're fucked up, dork," Edward said. Ben—that was his name. He _was_ a bit of a dork.

"Dork—this dork'll fuck _you_ up," Ben said as he staggered to his feet and lurched toward Edward. Laughing, Edward got up and danced away from Ben's attempts to tackle him. One of Edward's brothers—the blond one, Jasper—got up, and tackled them both to the ground. They wrestled, hurling insults and kicking up sand. The Cullen boys sure were built. I could feel myself blushing, and I had to look away. When I did, my field of vision was obscured by red plastic.

"Get me another drink," said Mike's girlfriend. God, I'm terrible with names… Starts with an L…

"Excuse me?"

"You're the help. That's what you're here for." L-something thrust her cup at me again. "Skinny daiquiri."

I started to tell her—in terms that would make Anthony Bourdain blush—what I thought of her and her skinny daiquiri, when Edward's voice interrupted me. "Get it your own damn self, Lauren." Lauren, right. Bitch. "I hear walking on the sand's good for cellulite, too."

"Asshole!" She got up and stalked off back to the house, swearing the whole way. Mike called after her, halfheartedly, then turned to Edward. "Thanks, man. It's gonna be "Does this make my ass look big?" and "Do I look fat in this?" for fucking weeks now. Thanks for that."

"She was being a bitch to Bella," he replied, completely unapologetic. Mike just shrugged.

I looked over at Edward, but he was glaring at Mike. I reached out, tentatively, and put my hand on his sandy knee. When he met my eyes, I smiled at him. "It's fine, Edward. I've got thick skin—heh, literally. See?" To distract him, I held my hand out in front of the bonfire, only a few inches away from the flame. Edward's own hand shot out and he grabbed my forearm, then pulled my hand back.

"How are you not burned?" he asked, moving the pads of his thumbs over my upturned palm.

"Thick skin," I repeated, flexing my fingers. Surely he noticed the ugly calluses.

"Oh, Bella," piped up a darkling girl named Alice. She was actually rather nice. "We'll take you to get a manicure tomorrow, you'll have soft hands in no time."

"Um." Edward was still holding my hand. "That's kind of you, but no thanks. I earned my calluses. I worked hard for them. I know they're hideous, and definitely not feminine, but my hands… My hands are as important to my job as my tastebuds. Without one or the other, I'd never be able to do what I do. And I love what I do, so asbestos hands it is."

"You're a cook?" someone asked—I didn't look up to see. My hand was obviously fine, but Edward was still running his fingers over the skin there, just the lightest touch. It was a _caress_. He traced the lines in my palm: head, heart, life. What are they telling him?

"No," Edward interrupted. "She's a _chef_. I think it's cool," he said, nodding at my hands.

I shook my head at him, but he just kept looking at me like I was something special.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing. You're beautiful."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I cleared my throat and changed the subject like an idiot.

"So, um, who's ready for dessert?"

Edward's other brother, Emmett, raised his hand like he had the right answer in class.

"I wanna see what the big deal is a about your cooking. Eddie here—"

"Don't fucking call me Eddie."

"—won't stop bragging about it, and he won't share either!"

"She's not my favorite Tonka truck, Em."

"Mama taught you better, man," Jasper said, nodding.

I sat back and watched the siblings bicker, feeling nostalgic for something I never had. They were getting boisterous again. The best way to get three boys to shut up (short of flashing them) is also the easiest for me: food. I grabbed the baggie of pineapple wedges from next to me, selected one, and put it by the flame. I watched carefully, waiting for the sugar to start bubbling. Sweet, toasty aromas began to waft up, carried by the warm air the bonfire created. I became aware of my audience just as I found the ideal grilling distance.

"See? Just like this. When you burn sugar, controlled burn, it becomes caramel. The sucrose—the table sugar I coated the pineapple with—breaks down into fructose and glucose, simpler sugars. There are about a million other things going on, too, molecular gastronomy-type stuff. See, look there," I said, holding the fruit up for the group to see.

"Golden-brown, that's what you want. Burnt just right. But be careful. Burn it too much, and it's just... burnt. Like those carbon snakes you made in science class."

Emmett and Jasper both nodded at me, but Edward looked puzzled.

"The experiment. With sugar and sulfuric acid."

"Bella, the on-set tutors I had didn't do science experiments with me."

"Oh. I could find a video of it online… or maybe we could do it together sometime."

"Yeah. Maybe," he said. I handed him the skewer, the one I'd worked hard to get just perfect. "Um, need a beer?"

Edward bit into his pineapple as he nodded at me. A loud, porny moan came from behind my back after I got up and turned to walk to the cooler. Satisfied that their guinea pig was safe, even enjoying himself, the boys started clamoring for one of their own. Even the girls expressed interest.

"Ugh. Bud Lite." I shook my head. The sand leapt ahead of my feet as I walked back into the house like dolphins riding a ship's bow wave. I couldn't hear the sound, but I imagined it was a bit like sifting flour. _Shh-puh-shh-puh-shh-puh_.

The good beer—Belgian, in dark bottles—was hiding behind cases of American shit with loud labels. There were only a few left, and I was back to being confused about my place here. When Edward first hired me, things were professional between us. Employer-employee. Lately, he'd been treating me differently, more familiarly. He smiled and chatted with me, and seemed genuine—which made it much harder to hide my feelings for him.

The guys at Forks High were so clearly after that one thing, and I wasn't noticed at all in Phoenix. Female chefs still have so much to prove in culinary school, there was no way I could fuck one of the students there and be taken seriously, so they became like older brothers, I guess. Dick jokes and talking shit. It wasn't like I could bust Edward's balls about his knife skills. I had no frame of reference for this situation. A friend could take a beer, right?

I looked out over the beach, seeing only Edward. He was holding a pineapple skewer in front of him, concentrating hard. The others were laughing. I should use this recipe at Edward's next party. Miniaturize it. The skewers were a great conversation starter. If it was a cocktail-type party, I could set up stations with Sterno burners and individual jugs of the chocolate sauce—no, what about those chocolate fountain things? I'd need finger-bowls, too.

I grabbed a bottle of water for myself.

"You didn't want one?" Edward asked after I put the last few lambics in the cooler and sat down next to him. I shook my head.

"Um, here. I did this one." Edward offered me a skewer. A few bits were nearly black, and the sugar was barely melted elsewhere. He looked like a little boy asking to put his crayon-art up on the fridge, though, and I couldn't deny him. I bit in, tasting bitter char and the raw sugar that stuck between my teeth. I told him it was perfect.

The sun set and Emmett added more wood to the bonfire. The friends chatted and I tried to join in. When Jasper brought a guitar from the house, Lauren returned with him. She glared at me from the other side of the circle.

Jasper strummed and sang, the others harmonizing here and there, Emmett being particularly enthusiastic. And then Edward joined in.

I'd heard Edward sing along with a few of his millions of records, and each time was just like this: I'd stop everything and listen. If breathing weren't automatic, I'd probably stop that too—as it was, I wasn't doing a great job of it. _Laughin' and a-runnin', hey-hey_… His voice was warm and rich, and far too soulful for a man who wasn't even 30. I had chills in the balmy night.

Edward, still singing, tentatively reached out and wrapped his arm around my shoulders.

"Cold?" he whispered when Jasper took over on the _sha-la-la la-la la-la-te-da_.

"No," I whispered back, and he smiled. I felt a gentle tugging on my shoulder—Edward was pulling me closer. I shifted until my entire side was pressed against his and my cheek was on his chest. Edward still had a smear of sand on his other shoulder from his wrestling match; it glittered in the firelight, twinkling in a dull way, like turbinado sugar. I watched it glint each time Edward took a breath to sing again. The buzz his voice in his chest made against my ear was comforting and I found myself being lulled into a Zen state, a little bit like how I used to feel when I was working the hot line. Time oozed past, I knew that, but I was separate from it. Of course, I wasn't desperately trying to keep up with the expediter's shouted orders now, and my body wasn't aching with fatigue. I watched the stars and absorbed the feeling of Edward's arm around me.

"Hey." I blinked and looked around. The gathering had shrunk by half.

"Hey."

"Tired?" When I looked up to answer him, I realized how close he was. Edward's nose was only a few inches from mine and I wanted to rub mine against it. I pulled back a bit, just enough that I could look into his eyes without my own crossing. Flames reflected in his eyes. I watched the green peek out, then be cha away.

My heart was pounding—Edward was still looking at me.

"No, Edward. I'm not tired at all."

"Hmm…" Edward's tongue, stained dark by caramelized sugar, slid out of his mouth, wetting his top lip and then the bottom. I looked into his eyes then and was taken aback by the desire there. It was a look I'd seen to a lesser degree on several occasions in private moments these past few months, one I'd always convince myself I never saw. I saw it now. And he was leaning towards me.

"I want you."

Edward kissed me before I could start really freaking out. His lips were soft and sweet from the pineapple. He moved then, and I moved with him; we moved together. His hand slid into my hair and pulled out my ponytail.

"I love your long hair," he murmured, using it to pull me back to him as soon as he was finished speaking. He opened his mouth a little and I felt that taunting tongue from earlier brush against my bottom lip. A little _oh! _sound got stuck in the back of my throat. I let him in. He tasted like warm beer, my favorite beer. I was moaning, he was breathing hard.

"Bella…" He dropped his hand from my face down my arm until he gripped my hand in his own. His touch relaxed the death grip I had on the picnic blanket. When he pulled my hand onto his shoulder, I couldn't stop myself from falling over a little bit. He was just so much taller.

The kiss broken, Edward pulled back to look at me again. We were both panting. I don't know what decided him, but he reached over, gripped my hips, and pulled me onto his lap. My thighs settled around the outside of his.

"Oh, God." I could feel him, hard beneath me, his cock pressing against his shorts and mine. He knew I felt it when I rolled my hips, pushing closer. For the first time, I was looking down at him, and the new perspective only made the sight of him groaning and closing his eyes even more surreal. I had loved and lusted after this man for two years—now I was in his lap. Making out.

"Fuck, Bella, do that again."

"This?" I moved my hips again, hissing as his length hit me just right.

"Yes, just fucking—" He pulled me down to kiss him again. Apparently, introductions were over, because there wasn't even the pretense of asking for permission he knew I'd give. He pushed his tongue into my mouth, strong and assertive, stroking mine in a suggestive rhythm. One of his hands was on my ass and guiding my movements, and the other was in my hair, holding me close. I ground against him and we were both moaning. He whispered _yes_ each time our lips broke apart.

My brain caught up with my body. I was in the Caribbean, on a white sand beach, making out with Edward. Making out. With Edward. Giddy, my heart racing, I stammered, "We really gonna... do... this out here?"

"Fuck yes," he said in between long, sucking kisses on my neck. "If you'll let me."

"Ohh." I gasped and dug my fingers into his hair, making damn sure he knew to keep doing that. "In front of your friends?"

"They'll have fucked off if they know what's good for 'em."

I moved my hips more shallowly, focussing him right where I needed it, groaning with each stroke.

"Yes, baby, yes, baby, yes…" He pulled his hand from my hair and slipped it under my tank top. My bikini top was pushed aside next, and then his hand was wrapped around my whole breast. He squeezed it once, then pulled back, rolling and tugging my nipple with his fingers. Scotchbonnet warmth was spreading from my belly to my limbs.

Edward looked up at me in surprise. "Baby? Fuck, are you—are you gonna… oh fuck…" When I came I held him tightly to me. I felt him tense, felt his breath on my collarbone when he groaned, short, three times. When he collapsed backwards onto the blanket, he pulled me with him. I pressed my body against his and started kissing his neck.

"Bella—baby—let me get you inside first."

I giggled. "We're not gonna sleep out here?"

"Nah. As soon as I can feel my legs again, I'm taking you to bed."

"I can walk, Edward."

"Not tonight. Not as far as I'm concerned."

I giggled. "All right, okay." I played with his hair for a moment while he recovered.

Groaning, struggling a little bit against the give of the sand, Edward sat up. He wrapped my arms around his neck and stood. I squealed, I couldn't help it, and locked my heels behind his back. Edward carried me up the beach and into the house, bypassing my room for his. He tossed me on his bed.

"Let me, um, clean up a bit," he said, gesturing vaguely to his lower half.

"Right." He peeled his shirt off as he walked into the bathroom, and I closed my eyes. I just felt so damn good. Heavy limbs, quiet mind.

I fell asleep as soon as I felt solid warmth behind me and lips on my hair.

I woke alone, dream-memories of the night before dancing in my mind and whispering along my skin. Happiness wrapped around me like cotton candy—soft and sweet. Smiling, I stretched. Edward's bed was huge, but he must have slept wrapped around me all night; the other side wasn't even mussed. That made me smile. I threw on a sundress and headed downstairs.

I didn't have to search for Edward long: I could hear him arguing with another man in the office.

"—do this? What a bitch. Look, you both need to go, and don't call me when I get back in town. Get out, I need to call Victoria to deal with this shit."

Mike exited the room, walking too quickly for me to read anything in his expression other than that he was upset.

"Edward?" He threw a sparkly pink cell phone down on the desk when I entered. He didn't look at me. No smile. When he heard my voice, he pinched the bridge of his nose. I'd seen him do that before, when he'd first tried to produce. Edward was upset, too.

I walked up to him. I slipped my arm around the crook of his elbow, his arm rigid; I kissed his shoulder and felt tense muscles.

"Edward?"

"Bella, we need to talk."

"Okay…" No. Please, no. Those are the most dreaded words in the English language, everyone knows that.

"About last night." Oh God, except for those. I took a few steps back—I couldn't bear to feel the warmth his body brought mine when he spoke words like that. When he looked at me, finally, I took another step back. Those weren't the eyes that I fell in love with. They were cold.

"But… but you…"

"Bella, I was drunk. Don't get the wrong impression. I didn't mean any of that. It shouldn't have happened, and it won't happen again."

"What? Edward… please…"

"I don't feel that way about you."

"Of course you don't, Edward Cullen," I said from behind the hand I didn't even realize was covering my mouth. A tear dripped from my chin, saline and heavy.

"I'll understand if you want to seek other employment when we return to Los Angeles, and of course I'll give you a reference," he said in a voice that held the first trace of softness I'd heard since walking in here. That softness somehow made the statement worse. I sobbed.

"I have to make a call now." He picked up the handset on the desk and turned away from me. Dis-fucking-missed.

I spent the next three days numb in the spare bedroom. I didn't get a new job when we got back to LA, and things went back to like they'd been in the beginning. For a while.


	7. 7 Sorbet

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Sorbet**

Sorbet [soar-bay] is a frozen dessert made from sweetened water flavored with fruit (typically juice or purée), wine, and/or liqueur. Sorbet is variously explained as either a Roman or Persian invention. The name comes from the Latin verb "sorbere" and the modern Italian verb sorbire, meaning to eat and drink at the same time. The noun form, sorbetto, is a mixture of a solid and liquid food. The term sherbet or charbet is derived from the Turkish şerbet, "sorbet", from the Persian sharbat, which in turn comes from the Arabic شربات sharbāt meaning "drink(s)" or "juice." Sorbet is sometimes served between courses as a way to cleanse the palate before the main course.

Sorbets in _service à la russe_ dinners are most commonly citrus-flavored.

Citrus-Ginger Champagne Sorbet

4 C good-quality Champagne

2 C granulated sugar

4 C water

2 C fresh-squeezed orange juice

1/2 C fresh-squeezed lemon juice

4 tbsp ginger, peeled and finely chopped

2 tsp each finely grated lemon and orange peel

Sprigs of mint for garnish

Pop cork from champagne bottle 1 to 2 hours before using. Gradually pour champagne, allowing for foaming, into a 2-quart container; set aside. Combine water, sugar and ginger in heavy large saucepan. Bring to boil, stirring until sugar dissolves. Reduce heat and simmer 10 minutes. Add citrus peels, boil 2 minutes. Remove from heat. Whisk in citrus juices and champagne. Cool completely. Pour mixture into 13x9x2-inch glass baking dish. Cover and freeze until solid, about 6 hours or overnight.

Transfer mixture to processor and puree until smooth. Return to same glass dish; cover and freeze until solid, at least 3 hours or overnight. (Can be prepared 3 days ahead. Keep frozen.)

M-e-P

The music was _loud_ over Edward's house-wide sound system. I loved this song. It was atmospheric—moody—and it made me feel sexy. I swung my hips to the sultry techno beat as I stirred the simple syrup on the stove. Listening to the lyrics, I wondered why Edward was playing this song before he'd left for a meeting with his agent. He said something about a 'smart action' movie. I was making him a light dessert so we—he, so that _he_ could celebrate without overloading his still-sensitive stomach. He'd been sick for days and was finally on the mend.

Shit, I hoped this wouldn't be too acidic. And I hoped we wouldn't be eating it to drown his sorrows, but really, these days there was hardly a role that Edward wanted which he didn't get. He was already speaking to a trainer and a nutritionist about conditioning his body. The first thought was indeed appetizing, the latter not so much. My last experience with one of Edward's nutritionists was horrible. Not even I could make undressed poached chicken breasts palatable.

I sang along the two harmonizing women. I added the grated citrus peel to my saucepan. The sunny-bright peels swirled along with the eddies my spoon had left behind: sugar-water spin art. The essential oils coated my skin, and I could taste them on my tongue. I let my eyes unfocus and just watched the play of color. It was hypnotic, just like the music. Peppery ginger aroma filled the kitchen as I swayed. It tickled the inside of my nose. I hit the _back_ button to play the song again.

I clicked the stove off and closed my eyes. I stretched my arms over my head, silicone spatula still in hand. I may never get a Michelin star working for Edward, but I could dance by myself in an empty kitchen—no restaurant could offer me that freedom. Or good health insurance. Edward being a dickbag aside, I loved my job. Loved it.

And I loved Edward, too.

I picked up the bottles of champagne and ran my thumb over the lip of the one left over from Edward's date. My stomach still fluttered when I thought about the implications of this mostly full bottle. I had to get over Edward. He was charming, funny, and smart (for an actor), but he was also really uneven. Fickle. I thought of pineapple and firelight, and my stomach fluttered again. He may have been acting nicer toward me lately, but Edward had burned me once. Yeah, his date had been bad, but he was still dating. I hadn't been out with a guy that wasn't a fishmonger since I started falling for Edward.

I poured the champagne into the large saucepan, one bottle then another. I stirred for a second, then added the mixed citrus juices. Another stir; I licked the spatula and hummed. Sweet-tart, with a mild bite from the alcohol. Next time, I'd use cheap champagne that I'd cooked first.

The kitchen felt hot. I wiped my forehead with the dish towel on my shoulder, then dragged it down my neck and through the half-unbuttoned placket of my whites, down my chest and between my breasts. I dragged it up my body again, somehow not feeling like a cheap belly dancer. The lemon oil and heat were a muggy veil enveloping me. I felt shielded.

Maybe I'd go to a club. I wasn't the type to hook up, but maybe I could get my mind off things for a while. Dancing felt good.

"Holy fucking shit."

I whirled around. Edward was standing in the entrance to the kitchen, messenger bag in hand, mouth slightly open. He'd only left about a half hour ago.

"Edward? What are—"

His bag hit the floor, the leather smacking against the marble. In three strides, he was in front of me, one hand on my waist and the other behind my neck. I barely had time to register the expression of intense desire on his face before he tilted my head back and kissed me—hard.

My body reacted while my mind went blank. I kissed him back, kissed him with everything I had. I dropped the tea towel and threw my arms around his neck, feeling how his shoulders curved over as he bent down to reach me.

"I can't fucking take it anymore…" Edward muttered when the kiss broke as he tilted his head to the other side. His lips were hard against mine but his tongue was soft, teasing. He groaned and slid his hand down to my thigh, gripping it and lifting me up onto the counter. When my ass hit the cold marble, I gasped.

"Hire you a bodyguard, don't care… Worth it…"

He stepped in between my parted thighs. My hands were in his hair, my lips were on his, and he tasted so damn good—spicy like the chiles I'd put in his egg whites this morning. He broke the kiss, sliding his lips along my jaw and down my throat.

"Mmm, lemon…" He nibbled on my earlobe, rolling his tongue along the small, sterling studs there, a gift from my mother.

"God, I want you, I want you so bad."

_I want you_. I felt like I'd been shocked in an ice-bath. I'd heard that before—right before he'd shattered me. He'd callously, coldly thrown me away. What if he did it again?

Edward must've noticed that I wasn't responding anymore. He pulled back and I hated how hot he looked with his mussed hair and swollen lips. My hands were limp in his hair, so I let them drop to my sides. I gripped the edge of the counter.

I saw the moment it clicked for him.

"No, Bella, no—I didn't mean…"

"What?! Again?" I tried to push past him and shove off the counter, but he wouldn't move. I couldn't take this anymore. I'd get a new job. Someone would hire me, my credentials were impeccable. "Let me past, you bastard!"

"No, no-no-no, just listen!" He pulled my chin up to make me look at him. Edward wiped my face with one hand, gently brushing tears away. He kissed a few off the other cheek and I tried to shove him away again.

"Bella, I'm sorry, but please just listen. Will you? Please?"

I nodded. I had no idea why.

"I _did _mean it. I meant it, and I meant it the first time." His cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, silenced it, and tossed it on the counter. In the same motion, he grabbed the stereo remote and aimed it over his shoulder, turning the volume way down.

"I'm sorry, Bella. I'm sorry for what I did to you before—not the kiss, but the way I handled it. And for the way I did this."

"What? Is this supposed to be making me feel better or worse?"

He closed his eyes. "I'm such a fucking moron. Bella, I wanted to—fuck—I wanted to take you out, okay? Like a normal guy. I wanted to take you out to some really great place and fucking impress you and act like a real man would, but only after I'd proven you could trust me, and—goddamn it!" he shouted when his phone began ringing again. He grabbed it and answered it.

"Yes! Yes, I'm on my way, Victoria. I fucking know he's important, all right? I'll be right there, I have something to take care of first. Yes, something _more_ important." He hung up. Edward reached up, his fingers already shaped to pinch the bridge of his nose. He set his hand down on the counter next to mine instead.

"You have to go." It was something halfway between a question and a statement.

"Yeah. In a minute, yeah. I just… there's a reason I did what I did. I'm not saying it was a good reason or that I did the right thing, but I thought it was right at the time. I am sorry, though. Bella, I'm so sorry. Will you please let me try to make it right?"

After a long pause during which his eyes became increasingly anxious, I nodded again. I wondered why anyone loved anyone.

"Thank you, Bella," he said, a sigh of relief. He stepped back, looking at me almost like he was double-checking something. I don't know what he would've seen. Edward half-jogged to his office and I heard him rummaging around in there. He came out with a paper in his hand and slipped it into his bag. The papers in there stuck out in every direction, bent and orderless. The sight of it usually made me twitch with the urge to organize, but right now, it didn't bother me.

"I promise, I'll explain everything. But I have to get back to the restaurant, the director's waiting and he flew in from London…"

"Did you go to the place I was telling you about?"

"Yeah, of course. Hey, do you, um—do you want me to bring you something back?"

I smiled for the first time since I saw Edward in that doorway. "I dunno if a place like that does carry-out, Edward."

He grinned, cute and a little cocky. "For me, they will." Okay, a lot cocky.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Sure."

"What?"

"Just tell the chef who I am, he knows me. He'll pick something."

Edward frowned and shook his head slightly. He walked toward me again, and I marveled at how different a man could look making the same three strides over the same piece of floor.

"Can I kiss you goodbye, Bella?" He brushed his thumb along my lip, his pointer finger resting along my jaw.

"You've never asked permission before."

"I know that."

I looked at Edward for a long time. Really looked at him. The same man who'd broken my heart. The same man I still loved.

"Okay."

Edward smiled. He leaned down to kiss me again. This time—for the first time—he was gentle. He brushed his lips against mine. I lost myself in the sweet sensation. Edward was still smiling when he stepped away from me.

"We'll talk when I get back?" He kissed me again, quickly, and walked out of the kitchen.

"Oops," he said, jogging back in again. He grabbed his bag and left, fingers grazing his lips.

What the fuck just happened?

**AN:** I continue to be overwhelmed by the reaction to this story. Thank each and every one of you for your reviews. For the first time ever, I got more than I could reply to. I'm stunned and humbled. Thank you, thank you, thank you.


	8. 8 Plât Principal (Rôti)

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Plat Principal (Rôti)**

Umami [oo-mah-me], a savory taste, is one of the five basic tastes, together with sweet, sour, bitter and salty. A loanword from the Japanese (うま味), umami can be translated "pleasant savory taste". This particular writing was chosen by Professor Kikunae Ikeda from _umai_ (うまい) "delicious" and _mi_ (味) "taste".

Umami primarily represents the taste of the amino acid L-glutamate. It's also given by 5-ribonucleotides such as guanosine monophosphate (GMP), which is found in mushrooms, and inosine monophosphate (IMP), which is found in meat and fish. The sensation of umami is due to the detection of the carboxylate anion of glutamate in specialized receptor cells present on the human and other animal tongues. It can be described as a pleasant "brothy" or "meaty" taste with a long lasting, mouthwatering and coating sensation over the tongue. Its effect is to balance taste and round out the overall flavor of a dish.

Umami clearly enhances the palatability of a wide variety of foods, which is why synthesized umami in the form of monosodium glutamate (MSG) is added to many inexpensive, pre-packaged foods.

Venison Tenderloin with Berry Sauce and Creamy Potatoes

Potatoes:

3 medium Yukon gold potatoes

Kosher salt

3 tbsp butter, room temperature

1 tsp ground nutmeg

1 tbsp heavy cream, plus more if needed

Salt and freshly ground white pepper

Venison:

2 venison tenderloins

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

3 tbsp grapeseed oil, or other oil with mild flavor and med-high smoke point, like sunflower or corn oil.

Sauce:

1 C red wine

1 C demi-glace (don't be a show-off, just use the prepared kind, like More Than Gourmet Demi-Glace Gold)

1 small red onion, halved

2 sprigs fresh thyme

1 sprig fresh rosemary

1 tbsp juniper berries

1 tsp sugar

1/3 C blueberries

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 tbsp butter

For the potatoes: Peel the potatoes and cut into 1-inch chunks. Place the potatoes in a large saucepan of cold, salted water. Bring the water to a boil over high heat. When the water boils, lower the heat to medium and simmer the potatoes until they're fork tender, 15 to 20 minutes. Drain the potatoes well and transfer to a bowl. Mash the potatoes until there are no lumps. Stir in the butter, nutmeg, cream, salt, and white pepper. Stir until creamy, adding more cream if needed. You want smooth, creamy potatoes. Taste and season with more salt and white pepper, if needed.

For the venison: Season both sides of the venison tenderloins with salt and pepper. Heat a large saute pan over high heat and add the oil. When the oil is hot, but not smoking, add the tenderloins. Reduce the heat to medium and sear the tenderloins on all sides, 3 to 4 minutes per side. Remove the loins from the pan and let rest until ready to serve.

For the sauce: In a small saucepan, combine all of the ingredients, except for the blueberries and butter. Bring the mixture to a boil over medium-high heat. Lower the heat, add the blueberries, and simmer until reduced a little and thickened, 8 to 10 minutes. Remove from the heat, strain the sauce back into the saucepan, season with salt and pepper, and then whisk in the butter. Hold warm until serving.

To plate: Spoon potatoes into the center of the plate. Slice the venison loin into 1/2-inch thick slices on a bias. Lay slices over potatoes. Top with sauce. Serves four.

M-e-P

We still hadn't talked. Shit just kept getting in the way.

The day of the Kitchen Kiss, I lingered as long as I could, trying to draw out any excuse I could find to stay. I cooked and stored three dinners for Edward. I cleaned every piece of equipment I—well, Edward—owned. I ran a whetstone over all of my knives. When it was long past my usual quitting time and he still wasn't back, I left. Yes, he'd apologized, and I'd agreed to let him explain, but I wasn't anything to him yet. Waiting up just didn't seem right.

The next day had been Monday, my day off. I didn't call him, but then again, he didn't call me either. I did watch one of his movies on DVD.

Today, Vicky pounced on me as soon as I entered the kitchen. One hand gesticulating with her phone, she explained that the party Edward was hosting for this weekend was actually tomorrow. She was talking too fast for me to really catch what she said (or maybe I just found her self-important name-dropping to be grating, so I tuned it out) but apparently Edward's meeting with the director had gone _very_ well. He and his entourage were going to attend the party before returning to London. Hence the date change.

"Genius has its own schedule, I'm sure you understand," she explained with a wave of her hand. She didn't stop to let me explain that as a chef—my medium, food, being tied to the seasons—I was constantly working on someone else's schedule. My client's, my customer's, the Earth itself. Even if she had, I'm not sure I would have explained, or even could have. I've always had trouble putting my love for food into words. Likely there were no James Beard awards in my future. Edward was really the only non-chef I spoke to about it.

"It's too short notice, Victoria. I won't be able to do a good job."

"Well, we're hiring a caterer as well, but Edward _really_ wants you to cook. He loves your food. Can't do this, for him?"

That wasn't manipulative at all, so here I was—speeding down the freeway on my way to Napa Grocery. Specializing in the obvious, it was my best option for local produce with my deadline. _Doesn't Edward deserve the best?_ Yes, Victoria.

I climbed out of my beat-up truck, grabbed a cart, and went inside. I headed straight for the butcher's counter. He was a huge old Italian man, wearing a randy grin and an apron smattered in gore. The butcher case's glass was cold and reassuring as I rested my hand on it and described what I needed: something lean, suitable for a main course, but able to be carved at a station.

"I have venison, backstrap and tenderloin, and roast too. I've been savin' it for a pretty lady like you."

"Savin' it? It's not fresh, then?" I raised my eyebrow at him. He laughed and winked at me. "Game's hip now. Yeah, I'll take the tenderloins, uh, give me all eight," I said, after double-checking the revised guest list.

While the butcher wrapped the dark meat in paper, I started composing my menu. The caterer was taking care of the canapés, HDs, and the hot appys; the main course and dessert were mine.

I wandered through the aisles, letting my mind drift, considering flavors. I grabbed this and that. Venison has a unique flavor, strong—slightly gamey with a twinge of mineral aftertaste on the back of the tongue. I needed to create a sauce that could stand up to it, rich with umami and sweetness. Berries were traditional with game.

The precious little half-pints of blueberries I stacked in my cart cost $6.99 apiece. My money or not, I couldn't help but cringe. Would they even be half as much at the Safeway back in Forks? No, but they wouldn't be wild and organic, either. I popped one in my mouth—_holy shit_. And they wouldn't taste like _that_.

"Last time I heard a chick moan like that, I had to pay her a hundred bucks." I spun around at the sound of a familiar voice.

"Garrett! Hi!" I put the berries in the front of my cart, out of easy reach. I was in serious danger of eating them all.

"Hey, Bella," he said. He had a basket overflowing with different types of greens. "How's it goin' with the whole _Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous_ thing?"

"Ha. Great. Still working your fingers to the bone for shitty pay and no appreciation? Been divorced again recently?" I grabbed some herbs, sweetish thyme and woody, resinous rosemary.

"Touché." He paused, shifting his basket from arm to arm. "And no, that last divorce stuck. I'm, uh, not seeing anyone."

"Mmhmm." I moved down the aisle, snagging some beautiful gold potatoes. I'd let Edward say goodbye to meat-and-potatoes for the next few months in grand fashion. Maybe I should get a few red creamers for texture. I needed good butter, and cream, too; I'd Joël Robuchon the fuck out of those potatoes. Edward would like that.

"Bella?"

"Yeah?" I looked over at Garrett. He was holding up my instant demi-glace with a shit-eating superior expression.

"Fuck you, asslicker," I said, falling easily into the old habit of restaurant jargon: profanity. I snatched the box back. "I don't have a bunch of prepmonkeys to boil a bunch of bones for a million hours. Ugh, this fucking party is _tomorrow_, but even if it weren't—I wouldn't make that shit from scratch unless I had a damn good reason." Maybe I would next time, though. For him.

My phone rang. "Edward? Hi."

"Hey, Bella? I'm trying to make a sandwich here."

"Dammit, there's tons of stuff I made for you to reheat."

"I know. That's for me. The sandwich is for Jasper. He totally doesn't deserve your cooking." I could hear Edward grinning. "I was just, um—you know that thing you use to toast bread?"

"Edward, Edward—no. Don't. Step away from the salamander, okay?" If he could set his house on fire with the goddamned microwave, he needed to stay the fuck away from an open flame. "Your regular electric toaster is in the pantry, just get it out, okay?"

"Okay, cool. Jasper! Look for the toaster in the pantry! You gettin' me something good?"

I giggled at Garrett, who was doing something truly vile to some fingerling potatoes. "Garrett, stop, those poor things weren't meant to be touched that way."

"What the fuck—Who the fuck is Garrett?"

"The chef-de-cuisine at the restaurant I worked at before I came to work for you. _Still_ not executive chef." Garrett flung the defiled potatoes into my cart and gave me the middle finger.

"Oh… um…"

"He does all the work, gets none of the credit." Now I was getting double middle fingers.

"Oh, like the opposite of a producer?"

I snorted. "Exactly. And yeah, I'm getting you the good stuff. I always do, Edward, you know that."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do know that."

"Anything else?"

"No. Yeah. Um, when're you gonna be home?"

I smiled. "I'll be home in an hour or so. Few more things to pick up."

"Okay—see you then."

"Bye."

"Bye, Bella."

"That him? Your boss?" Garrett asked.

"Yeah," I muttered. I was considering my idea for the grilled pineapple, the one I'd had on vacation with Edward. Edward. I could still feel his fireside kiss—and I could still hear his voice as he threw me away. The memory of the kiss was stronger, though. Or maybe it was the kiss from Sunday that I still felt on my lips.

"Lucky guy. Get me some tickets to his next premiere."

"What did you say?"

"Premiere tickets, Swan. Maybe I can score with one of his model exes."

"Oh, Garrett. Those skinny bitches? You're a chef, I thought you liked girls who swallow."

Garrett laughed and we headed towards the checkout.

When I worked in a restaurant, I'd always marveled at the choreography of the kitchen. All the chefs working separately towards the singular goal of creating art with esoteric science. In a well-ordered professional kitchen, each individual knew their part of the whole: hot line, cold line, pastry, expediters, even the dishwashers. It was beautiful. The inscrutable design in it all, the veneer of reason imposed on chaos, always transfixed me. They say the universe is gradually becoming less-ordered. Chefs were specialists in fighting entropy, at creating complexity out of simplicity.

I was using philosophy to help me ignore the ugly chaos in my own kitchen. Several waiters and other staffers from the catering company were bustling about. Their non-skid shoes squeaked on Edward's marble floor and I found myself obsessively focusing on the sound. I'd gotten spoiled, working by myself.

I stirred the sauce. It was properly unctuous and coated the back of my spoon. I checked the clock. Service would start soon. The venison was done resting, so I snapped my fingers at one of the young servers hanging around.

"Take this," I said, handing him the platter of tenderloins. "And this," I added the dish of sauce, "to the carving station. Tell whoever-it-is that I'll be coming by to check they've set it up right. Go."

The kid scurried off and I returned to my workstation. What next?

I pulled the pineapple skewers out of the fridge. Especially after what had happened—right here, on this bit of counter under my cutting board—it just seemed _right_ to make them. They were miniaturized, each diner now getting two about the size of my first three fingers. I had the salamander set up (thankfully still intact after its contact with Edward yesterday) to cook the sugar. I'd nicked one of the little Sternos from the caterers, but they wouldn't get hot enough. I suppose I could've Googled that. It was probably for the best, there were a few notorious lushes set to attend. They'd sue me if they burned themselves.

My chocolate fountain idea had been nixed, too. As the party planner explained to me, "Oh, honey, no. They have those at _Golden Corral_ now. No." And, yeah, it was true. I made gelato instead. Smooth, rich, and made with the best chocolate I could get my hands on—bitter, with a roasted, burnt aroma like tobacco. Dominican, from a plantation near the resort where I'd first made this dish. It wasn't like anyone would know that, but... I knew, and that was enough.

A warm, firm body pressed against my back. I inhaled to shout but I caught a whiff of sweet mint and vetiver. Edward. His arms wrapped around my middle and his lips touched the top of my head.

"Jesus, Edward! Don't sneak up on someone with a fucking huge, sharp knife in their hand."

"Sorry." He kissed my head again; then my temple; and the shell of my ear, once for each of the many earrings there. Another benefit to being a private chef. "I promised myself I wouldn't kiss you again until we'd talked."

"Is that so?" I let my head roll to the side and Edward kissed down my neck.

"Yeah…" He grasped my hips and tugged me around to face him. "So… if I was gonna kiss you now, how'd you feel about that?" The skin of his fingertips was soft against my forehead as he brushed some of my hair back, tucking it under my bandana.

"Hmm… I like a man who keeps his word. Some rules were meant to be broken."

"…What?"

"Uh, conflicted, I guess."

"I understand that." He nodded. "I can't imagine what you must be thinking, with the way I was acting. I'm so sorry, Bella." He looked so earnest, so intent. I wanted to distill the green of his eyes into an aqua vitae never to be drunk by anyone but me.

"Apology accepted." I noticed what he was wearing, a beautiful black suit. I wanted to needlessly adjust his perfectly knotted tie, like some 50s housewife, but I was sure my hands were filthy. "You look… very handsome."

"It's just the pretty wrapping. But you, Bella, you're beautiful just like this. Even with the sweat," he said, wiping my brow.

"Ugh, thanks." I tried to push him away, but he shook his head. "I'm gross."

"No, no, you—ah—you do that thing pregnant women do." Edward wasn't looking in my eyes anymore, but over my shoulder.

"Jesus, Edward! What? Pregnant? Way to make a girl feel pretty."

"No! Um, shit—you're gonna make me say it, aren't you? Fuck," he said, running a hand through his hair. "All right. You're _glistening_, okay? No straight man says that word, but I said it. For you."

"Wow. That was impressive." I moved into his space, using my body to push his back against the kitchen island. "I think you've earned that kiss after all."

Edward grinned before leaning down and kissing me. I exhaled long and slow through my nose and let my whole body relax into his. I felt him hug me close; a wonderful, complete feeling.

"I have to go get ready to greet my guests." He sighed. "I don't care how late this ends, please stay. I can't take this limbo anymore. Please."

"All right." Edward kissed me again, just a peck, and walked off in the direction of the formal dining room.

I got to work on my dessert.

My fingers were painfully numb—burning from cold—as I dropped the last rounded spoonful of gelato onto the china. Each serving looked like an Easter egg. My body sagged against the counter the moment the last of the plates had been run. I ached. My back felt tight, like my lower spine was being gripped by hot, dry hands and unable to bend properly. It was past 9 p.m., so I'd been on my feet for more than twelve hours. The party had at least another hour to go.

I washed my hands in the sink, using the liquid soap to massage my palms. I leaned forward to splash some water on the back of my neck. A droplet of water edged around my neck, under my jacket, clinging to my skin as it slid between my breasts. The _whish_ of the water pouring from the tap blended with the quiet drumming sound of that water hitting the stainless steel sink basin into a white noise I found too soothing; I startled awake.

"Ugh. Fuck." I'd said I'd stay. I went to the cupboard to find the cookies I'd hidden from the caterers earlier. Fucking locusts. I grabbed a couple and stashed the container again. I bit into one as I started down the hallway. Mmm, I'd done a good job with these. The buttery toffee mellowed the candied ginger nicely. I'd have to freeze whatever was leftover when Edward started his new meal plan on Monday. The man was incorrigible with his sweets.

I shuffled down the hallway. So tired. Edward had a screening room. I'd lie down there. But not sleep. Had to stay up, Edward wanted to talk. I picked a movie with lots of explosions and rock music and banged on the DVD player until it bent to my will. Fucker.

The bright, swirling colors of the opening title sequence morphed into the actors' faces; bled out into a spin-art of bold colors, green, black, red, pale flesh. I heard music, distorted like I was underwater. Voices whispering. Oh, I was warm—and floating. I tried to stretch and was shushed. The shushing was the wind blowing through fields of tall grass. I inhaled and could smell it, earthy green grass and greener herbs.

"What are you gonna tell her?"

"All of it. Eventually. She deserves to know."

"I don't like it."

"And I don't care."

The softness against my left cheek became softness against my right cheek. Beautiful, comforting blackness.

Music was playing, a piano—I could hear it from deep inside a sleepy cocoon.

"Like a river flows surely to the sea…"

I was lying on a bed and Edward was wrapped around me. His lips were pressed against my hair above my ear. Warmth creeped over me like ivy. Edward was singing.

"Darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be…"

I kept as still as I could. Please, don't stop.

"So take my hand… Bella?"

I exhaled slowly. "Yeah? I… that song…"

"I—ah—got it off your iPod, I hope you don't mind." He pointed a small remote at a docking station where my iPod—one that still had a click-wheel—sat, clashing horribly. The volume lowered.

"I love that song. It's very, um, close to my heart." I swallowed. Edward squeezed me tighter and I opened my eyes all the way. I was in the guest bedroom, a place I'd slept in a handful of times since coming to work here.

"I love it too," he said. "But I only found it recently."

"I've had it on there for a long time. Years." Edward nodded. This bedroom smelled strange: a combination of mustiness and fabric softener. It was unpleasant. I tried to wriggle around so I could bury my nose in Edward's neck, but he held me fast.

"Edward?" The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to the elbow, and I ran my fingers through the short hairs on his forearms.

"I'm sorry, Bella… I can't do this when you're looking at me. 'Cause if you're looking at me, all sleepy and rumpled, I'm going to want to kiss you. And I will, because I can't _not_, not anymore—and then I'll be kissing you and not thinking about all the things I'm supposed to be telling you. It's fucking cowardly, and I'm sorry, Bella… but it's the only way, I think."

"All right." I grasped his fist, resting against my ribcage, in my hand. I rubbed my thumb over his knuckles. So tense.

"I didn't notice you at all when you first came here." I knew that, but knowing it and hearing it are hardly the same thing. My stomach twisted.

"My fame... was still very new," he continued, "it was still fun. I fucked around with all those club girls, and actresses, and—well, I'm sure you remember."

I nodded. I hadn't even minded, until I did.

"But you were always there, stable and caring and… It had been building for a while, but one day I just realized how _bored_ I was, how over all the bullshit I was. That same day, I came home and I saw you, you were dancing in the kitchen—"

"Just the other day?"

"No, this was about… ten months ago, I guess, now."

_Ten months_.

"It was some godawful 90s power-pop song."

Oh. Yeah, I remembered that day. "I was feeling nostalgic. My dad invited me back home to Forks for Homecoming, we apparently had a good football team this year. I had to cancel. You… ah. Never mind."

"Bella."

I sighed. "You were having a party. Victoria told me about it a week beforehand and made me feel guilty about trying to beg off. She said I'd do it if I cared about you, and my job. So I stayed."

"…Because you cared about me, or about your job?"

"Both."

"I worried that—that all the things that I took as signs that you, that you cared for me, you just did them because it was your job."

"Let me up."

"Bella..."

"Now." He pulled his arm back. When I rolled over his eyes were fearful. I held the side of his face and kissed him. _I_ kissed _him_.

"I love my job here, working for you, and I," I swallowed the words down, "I do care for you. I—I can't help it." I chuckled softly and took a deep breath.

"I care for you, it is sort of my job, but there are lots of things outside my job requirements that I do for you." That I continued to do, even after you broke my heart. I couldn't say it, but I didn't think I had to. "Like last week. I could've just called a doctor or even your mom, but I didn't. I stayed because I wanted to."

"You do a lot of things just because you know I'd want you to, don't you?" I nodded at him.

"After everything that's—what I did to you," he paused and looked away before focusing back on me. "This, any relationship, has gotta be on your terms, Bella. It's gonna be hard, I mean, we won't be able to go out that often… when we do, we'll be mobbed, people will take our picture, women will hit on me right in front of you." His voice was frank but his brow was creased. I could tell he was uncomfortable, simple facts or not.

"And, um, actually… someone already has. Taken our picture. On vacation, that bitch, Lauren, got us with her cell phone. She told me the, uh, morning after, that she'd sold them. I had Victoria buy them back from the tab, but you never know. I'm sure they made copies."

Oh. _Oh._ "But… why? I mean, why not just let them come out?" Why did you put me through that?

"Because, Bella! It was—that was something just for us, and…" He squeezed his eyes shut. "I wasn't sure if I was ready for that, going public—events and appearances and all that. If _you_ were ready for all that. If I wanted it badly enough. I panicked, and… I convinced myself it was the booze. Or maybe I just punked out. But then we got back, and the more I tried to make things go back to normal, the more I missed you. And then all that shit with Tanya… Bella, I'm so sorry." He looked at me then. He put his hands on either side of my face.

"That was the stupidest fucking thing I've ever done, even worse than what I did on our trip. I was so fucking, just, pissed at myself and missing you that I called her and broke it off not an hour after you left. And then I got drunk. Really drunk. And then I started planning how to get you back.

"Bella," he said, wriggling down a little so we were on the same plane, "I wanted to earn your trust back, and I had a whole plan, but when I saw you dancing like that, just like before, when I realized that… It was too much. So I took what I wanted, _again_, but I can't do that anymore. Bella… I wanted to earn the right to ask you to be my girlfriend, but I won't."

He took a deep breath and my insides froze. What did he want? Some sort of with-benefits thing? Together, but keep it a secret? Be with me but still date some model/actress/whatever for the show?

"Can I be your boyfriend?"

"Oh."

"I mean, if you don't, we can go at your pace, whatever—"

I clapped my hand over his mouth. Thankfully, my body seemed to work even though my voice wouldn't. I gazed at him, blinking rapidly because my eyes felt too full. My _heart_ felt too full. I usually kept my feelings for Edward buried down deep. It kept the pain of unrequited love at a tolerable level. An ache instead of a burn. I felt my heart start to race as I finally let myself _really feel_. The rush of emotion made my fingers tremble a little. I felt flooded. Love, and affection, and lust-dear God, Edward in a suit-mixed with euphoric relief.

Over two years' worth of memories, thoughts, feelings all had to be shifted and seen anew through the filter of this new knowledge. That was going to take some time. I couldn't keep Edward waiting that long.

"Yes."

He pulled my hand off his face. Edward was grinning. He rolled on top of me and kissed all over my face. I had one last thought before completely dissolving into a fog of happiness: for all that was said, there was more that wasn't.


	9. 9 Salade

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Salade**

Green Papaya Salad with Prawn and Pork (_Goi Du Du Tom Thit_)

Dressing:

3 tbsp fish sauce

3 tbsp white vinegar

2 tbsp sugar

4 oz or 1/2 cup water

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

1 chile, chopped

2 tbsp fresh lime juice

Salad:

1 green papaya, peeled and finely julienned (about 6 oz), soaked in cold water for 4 minutes and drained

7 oz cooked pork belly, thinly sliced

5 fresh green mint leaves, chiffonade

5 fresh Asian basil leaves, chiffonade

5 fresh perilla (shiso) leaves, chiffonade

5 fresh coriander (cilantro) leaves, chiffonade

7 oz cooked medium-size tiger prawns (shrimp), peeled and halved lengthwise

1 tbsp fried red Asian shallots

1 tbsp crushed roasted peanuts

1/2 tsp fried garlic chips

1 chile, sliced

Combine the fish sauce, vinegar, sugar, and water in a saucepan and place on medium heat. Stir well and cook until just before it boils, then allow to cool. Add the garlic, chile, and lime juice, stir well. Combine the green papaya, pork belly, herbs, and dressing in a bowl. Toss. Serve topped with the prawns and garnished with the Asian shallots, peanuts, garlic chips, and chile.

M-e-P

"How do you do that?" Edward asked, sounding a little awed.

"Do what?" We were standing in his kitchen, side-by-side, preparing his dinner. No—_our_ dinner. I'd eaten dinner with Edward countless times, but this would be the first time as his girlfriend. Girlfriend. It still made me goofy-smile when I thought about it.

"_That_," he said as he nodded toward my cutting board. I'd set him up with the mandolin when he'd asked me to help with dinner. The idea of cooking with Edward was too enticing to pass up—that and he'd just gotten in the shower after his workout, one lock of damp hair flopping over his forehead. I set him up julienning some green papaya and didn't tell him about the miracle of a Cuisinart.

"What, chiffonade?" I threw the mint into the bowl with the rest of the veg. Edward had only been on his trainer's meal plan for a week and was already begging for pastries and red meat. I was using the strongest flavors I could to distract him from the fact that I'd replaced the pork belly in this recipe with chicken.

"The chopping, in general."

"Practice. A _lot_ of practice. They teach you knife skills in culinary school. If you want to be a chef, it's one thing you _have_ to learn."

"You're so fast."

I motioned for him to put the papaya in the clear plastic storage bin full of ice water. I smiled; he was being careful. He'd learned his lesson.

"Yep." I decided to show off a bit by mincing the garlic as quickly as I could. The _nam pla_ liquid was cooled enough, so I tossed the garlic and Thai red chile in the saucepan. A bright, spicy aroma was already filling the kitchen; swathes of scarlet, vibrant green, and golden-yellow flashed in my mind like scarves in the wind. I loved fish sauce. Gulf water-salty and yes, fishy, but a little sweet, too—and a roasted flavor, like nori. Working for Edward meant I could get the best stuff, too, made from squid. I used a fork to juice a lime over the saucepan.

"Do you think you could teach me?" he asked.

"Knife skills? Um, sure, I guess. Strain that." I had him dump the papaya out onto some paper towels and pat it dry. "Good, now, into the bowl."

I looked around. "Oh, here, something easy. Stand by your cutting board." I put the two plain, grilled chicken breasts on his board. I stood next to him and reached across his body to show him how to grip his knife properly. "Here, um, don't grip all around the handle like that…" I was struggling to reach.

"Bella, wait." Edward stepped back and guided me in front of him. He put his hands on either side of mine, flat down on the cutting board. He smelled so good—the whole kitchen did. I loved feeling him so close to me, but it was strange. This was all so new. I'd forgiven him in my heart, but my head urged caution. Maybe it was the other way around.

"Um, like this," I said. "Pick up the knife—good." Holding the knife with one hand, I inched his hand forward so his first two fingers wrapped over the back of the blade. "And your thumb, here, like this."

I let my hand linger on his. I expected his long fingers to make mine look squat and mannish in such direct comparison, but they didn't. They looked small, delicate. I _felt_ small and delicate all wrapped up in him like this. So strange.

I licked my lips and continued. "And you keep the knife in one spot, just rock it back and forth."

I showed him the proper chopping motion. He murmured, "Rock back and forth in one spot. Got it."

Jesus. The heat of his body was a delicious burn against mine. "Uh, tuck your fingers under, curled like this."

His lips brushed against the top of my head. "Use your knuckles to slide the food across the board, feed it in—I mean, to the knife."

"Mmm, curl my fingers, slide my knuckles, feed them in…" Oh my God. He was getting hard.

I wanted him to bend me over this counter—the one he had made for me—and fuck me until I was hoarse from screaming his name. I wanted candlelight and silk sheets. No, I didn't want that. I didn't want to be like just another of his girls, his conquests. But I didn't want this either. I wanted something special, something unique to us. He was kissing my ear, nibbling it, and I didn't know what the fuck I wanted. That chile-heat, that fireside heat, crawled down my body. He felt so good, just like before. But...

My mind kept whispering at me. Too soon. Too soon. Too soon, too soon, too soon.

"…Too soon…"

I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud until Edward froze. He slowly withdrew, putting some space between our bodies. I whimpered.

"I'm sorry, I'm just really confused still—"

"No, no, it's fine. Fuck, don't apologize. _I'm_ the one who's sorry. I'm such an asshole." He put his arms around my waist, loosely, and held me for the long minute it took for our breathing to return to normal.

"Bella? Keep teaching me?"

"Yeah. I'll show you how." Deep breath. I put my hands over his again and tilted the knife over, at an angle. "We want these cut on the extreme bias, and very thin, so… like… this…" I said as I helped him cut the chicken into strips.

"Why thin strips?" he asked.

"Surface area. You want to maximize contact with the dressing." I kept my hand on his to guide but let him take over. His cuts got a little sloppy.

"Maximize contact, right." He took a deep breath. I grasped his hand again to help him finish the last of the chicken. He put his knife down and tossed the meat into the bowl with the greens. "Mine aren't as good as yours. I'm… not quite there yet, I guess. Need more practice."

"We'll get there, Edward." I grabbed the bowl and turned in his arms. Such gorgeous colors. "Just need some time."

I ducked under Edward's arm and walked over to the stove. As I slowly poured the dressing over the papaya, Edward said, "I know there's supposed to be pork belly in this."

"Dammit!" I tossed the ingredients together and avoided his gaze. My food had always been the way I showed Edward how I felt. It killed me to have to tell him no, and I was afraid if I looked him now—with those damned puppy-dog eyes—I'd cave and show him where the cookies were hidden. I had, so many times, the last time he was on a meal plan. "Look, it's for your own good. You knew it'd be hard when you signed on for this role, and—"

"Thank you."

"What?" He was grinning at me.

"I know I'm being a pain in the ass." He held his hand out for me and I let him pull me into a hug. I inhaled; his cologne mixed with the fresher, light-blue scent of his soap and the aromas of what we were cooking. It was intoxicating: masculine and calming.

"Thank you for putting up with my grumpy dickishness. This is something we need to talk about, Bella. I don't know if you want to keep working for me—"

"I do!" I'd fought so damn hard — with myself, with him (even when he didn't know it) — to keep this job, there's no way I would give it up now.

"—All right, if you do, but you're also my girlfriend now. An employee would have to do what I say. My girlfriend, on the other hand…"

I smirked and looked up at him, resting my chin on his chest. "Your girlfriend, what? Wish you could rephrase that?"

He chuckled. "No. Some men might want a meek little mouse, but I don't. My girlfriend should know when to stand up to me."

"That's... going to be an adjustment."

"Can I have a cookie?"

"No."

"Can I have a kiss?"

"Yes."

He leaned down and pressed his lips against mine. The kiss was sweet—had he already snuck a cookie? Or was it just him? Probably just him. I touched my tongue to his, teasing, but didn't let the kiss get too deep.

When he pulled back he asked, "Can I please have a cookie?"

"No!" I laughed. The man—the full-grown man, able to vote, drink, and join the Army—was pouting. "Maybe after dinner, if you're a good boy."

"I'll be _such_ a good boy," he said and leaned back against the counter with his arms folded across his chest. I rolled my eyes and grabbed the salad bowl.

"How long until dinner?" he asked.

I put the bowl in the fridge and grabbed the shrimp. "Half hour. The salad needs to chill and I need to grill these." I held up the package of butcher-paper to show him.

"Good. Um, hey, can you show me how to chop up something else?"

"Hmm, sure." I glanced through the fridge. I didn't want anything to go to waste. "Something pretty easy, too," I mumbled. Onions, no. Leeks, definitely no. There were potatoes in the pantry…

"A-ha!" I grabbed a gorgeous Red Delicious apple from the crisper. "You can have this as a snack with some almond butter or something."

I tossed the apple at him and he unfolded his arms to catch it. He turned the fruit over in his hands, examining the skin.

"Symbolism?" He looked up at me through his eyelashes.

"Maybe."

I instructed him on cutting the apple, removing the seeds, then slicing it into wedges as I deveined the shrimp. I couldn't stop grinning the entire time.


	10. 10 Fromage

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Fromage**

To create a cheese plate, one could follow a number of different templates. The host could choose a cheese from one of the four basic categories (aged, soft, firm, and blue) or several from each type of milk used (sheep, cow, and goat). Five different cheeses is a good number, and at least one of them should be familiar to the diners. Serve with a variety of bread and crackers; condiments such as preserves, honey, or chutney; or items like cured meat or nuts for salt and dried fruits for sweetness.

Alton Brown's Grilled Cheese Sandwich

2 slices of bread, cut thin (as far as bread selection goes, all I'll say is the bigger the loaf the bigger the sandwich)

1 teaspoon (or more) smooth Dijon mustard

1 cup grated cheese (This is the soul of the thing, so use the good stuff. We like a semi-hard, semi-soft combo like smoked gouda and Gruyere or Fontina with a young Asiago. If you're a purist, go for the Cheddar, but make it sharp and aged if possible.)

Good quality olive oil for spritzing.

Find 2 heavy skillets that will nest together. Two (10-inch) cast iron skillets are ideal. Heat them over high heat. Meanwhile, spread mustard on one slice of bread. Distribute the cheese evenly over the mustard, season with fresh black pepper and top with second piece of bread. Spritz the bread surface that's staring up at you with olive oil using either a Misto or a pump sprayer. A light coat will do, don't soak. When the pans are hot enough to vigorously sizzle a drop of water, remove them from the heat and place the sandwich, top-side down in the middle of one pan. (if your pans are a different size, this would be the larger one.) Spritz the slice now facing you, as well as the bottom of the other skillet. Lay the skillet right on top of the sandwich. If the top pan isn't cast iron, weigh it down with a brick, can, or something of similar heft. Wait patiently, crack a beer. When you hear the first bit of cheese run out and sizzle on the pan, it's done. This will take anywhere from 3 to 5 minutes. Carefully remove the top skillet, (you may need to coax it off with a spatula, but I doubt it). Just look at it. It's perfect...better than mom's. (no reason to tell her). Remove to a plate, count to 10 and slice it in half.

M-e-P

A movie was playing on the giant screen several feet in front of me, but I wasn't watching. Neither was Edward. Some time ago, he'd twisted around to lie with his head in my lap. He gazed at me in the projector's flickering light, and I gazed back. His hair was cool and smooth between my fingers, like corn silk.

"This movie is really boring," he murmured. I hummed an agreement.

"Wanna watch something else? Something more fun?"

"Isn't this, like, research for you?" I traced the shell of his ear with my fingers, then down over his jaw and along his throat. Peach fuzz roughened to the scratch of scruff before his skin felt smooth again. My fingers itched—I wanted to continue their journey, to touch the indent of his collarbone. Over his t-shirt, under it and across the skin of his chest and stomach. I wanted to tug his shirt off and pull him up to me. I'd kiss him... I wanted to see if that same hesitation I'd felt in the kitchen last week was still there. Looking down at him now, I couldn't feel it anywhere inside me.

"I've seen enough. This… I wanted our first date to be more fun."

"Aw, baby, it was a lotta fun." I wanted to use some term of endearment, but _baby_ didn't feel right.

Edward smiled at me. "You cooked dinner and we watched half a movie. I wanted to—shit, to _woo_ you. I fucked up."

His smile soured as he spoke, until he was grimacing.

"It's way better than if we'd gone out," I said. I was trying to be gentle, but I'd upset him anyway. Edward frowned, just as I predicted he would.

"We need to have a long talk before we do that, and—I'd like to keep you to myself a little while longer."

"Selfish," I teased.

"Yeah." His frown faded. "How about this, you pick the movie we watch next instead."

He gestured to the huge library of DVDs. Something sentimental. _The Princess Bride_, or _The Little Princess_. Something with a princess in it. I guess all my desire for novelty ended with Edward. I was about to ask for a coin to flip when my stomach growled—loudly.

He chuckled. "Hungry?"

"Um… no." Dinner was roasted chile Brussels sprouts with grilled bison. My portion was smaller than Edward's, but still. I shouldn't be hungry.

"Just because I've got to eat like _that_ doesn't mean you do. Midnight snack before the movie." He sat up, rolled off the couch and landed on his toes, in a crouch. In the blue-dark of the screening room, his movements were surreally graceful. He kissed my hands and rose, pulling me with him. We walked, hand in hand, to the kitchen.

I stepped towards the fridge, but he tugged me back.

"Let me. Let me cook for you this time."

I smiled. "All right."

I sat down on one of the bar stools. Edward just stood there for a moment, but shook himself.

"Umm… What would you like?"

I couldn't help it—I laughed. His fishing for hints was adorable.

"What can you make, Edward? No popcorn!"

"Ha ha." He opened the fridge and stared inside. I let him flounder a minute.

"Honey…" No. That one wasn't right either. Letting him help was strange. I'd been caring for him for so long—it was hard for me to remain seated. To keep my hands busy, I traced the whorls and flecks of color in the black granite work surface.

"When I was a kid," he said, "my mom would make me grilled cheese when I couldn't sleep."

I chuckled. I leaned down and rested my chin on my folded arms. "Smart woman. Per portion, cheese has way more tryptophan than turkey."

"Really?"

I nodded.

"Huh. She used Kraft Singles, though. We don't have any of those."

"And we never will, if I have anything to say about it." I waited to feel weird about using _we_ like that, or at least a little silly. No weirdness, but my stomach did flutter—just as it always did around Edward. "Prepare to have your mind blown, then."

I slid off the stool and slipped under his arm holding the fridge door open. I pulled the cheese drawer open and rummaged through the blocks and wedges of cling-wrapped dairy. There was still a bunch left over from his party's cheese course. I picked through them until I found the sharp West Country Cheddar. I handed it to Edward and said, "Here. Grate about a cup of this."

"Um." He looked around and walked to a cabinet—the wrong one.

"Edward." I pointed to the right one and hopped up on the counter. I swung my legs a little; my heels thudded against the wood. "Get everything you need out ahead of time: box grater, bowl, two skillets."

"Two? Why?"

"You'll see. That one and that one," I said as he held them up for my approval. "Now, go back in the fridge and get out the mustard. No, the Dijon. And the bread... sweetie."

He smiled as he worked, assembling everything as I had instructed.

"Now, get your mise set up. It'll be easy with so few ingredients." I contemplated our reversal of roles. I felt off-center, a little bit, but in a pleasant way; not that a weight had been lifted, but that after having long borne a weight on one side, the burden was now halved, equal on all sides. Balanced. My body wasn't about to float away, accompanied by fluttering birds and a rousing Disney musical number. I was light, yes, but centered, grounded, secure, settled. It was a feeling I could get used to, happily so.

"My _mise_?"

He grated the cheese into the bowl. The tendons in his arms flexed as he worked. If I were to wrap my hand around it, his bicep would fit perfectly in the curve of my palm. His button-down would feel soft and broken-down, the way dry-clean-only fabric put through the washer does.

"Bella?" He was looking at me out of the corner of his eye, his cheek lifted up in a half-grin.

"What? Oh. Yeah. Your mise, your mise-en-place. It's French, it means, like, 'everything in its place.' In a restaurant it's a bigger deal, you can have twelve or fifteen bowls in your mise: salt, pepper, diced onions, bell pepper, whatever forms the base of the cuisine you're cooking. But even for home cooks it's really important, it forces you to read the recipe closely and you have to make sure you have everything you need, when you need it—so your garlic doesn't burn while you're chopping onions. More than that, though, it's a kind of philosophy, sort of. Only when you have everything ready, when you have your tools and ingredients, can you begin. Everything in its place, your mise."

"Is that enough?"

I eyeballed his bowl and it looked about right. I talked him through building the sandwich, lightly greasing the pan, and pressing the sandwich down with the second skillet. The bread made a cheery hissing sound in the hot pan. The nutty aroma of browning bread-and-butter rose from the pan, and my stomach growled again.

My directions were automatic, though, absent-minded. _Everything in its place_. That was Edward-and-me.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Now we wait."

He wiped his hands on a towel and walked the few steps to where I was sitting. Gently, Edward pulled my knees apart and stepped between them. The rasp of his fingers against my jeans made me shiver. He grasped my thighs and pulled me toward him.

"Hmm. Whatever should we do with our time?" He leaned forward and I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, he ran his nose along my jaw, brushing his lips against my throat. He squeezed my thighs and pulled me even closer.

"You should, um—" I tried to breathe, to steady my voice. "Clean your station."

"No, I feel like getting dirty."

He gripped the hair at the nape of my neck and tugged my head back. His lips were on mine. He opened his mouth, I opened mine by instinct; our tongues slid together, smooth and rough. Breathing him, tasting him. I locked my heels around his back and tugged on his hair. He broke away and kissed his way to my ear and neck.

"I feel like we've been here before."

"Mmhmm."

"You have some sort of counter fetish? Oh God." He was nibbling on my earlobe.

"Not until you came along," he murmured in my ear. "But seeing you, working here—I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to just bend you over…"

I tugged him back to me. His chest was rising and falling, rising and falling. I sucked on the tip of his tongue, he groaned. The only thing that kept us from acting out Edward's countertop fantasy—one of the few things that could break through my haze of lust—was the acrid aroma of burning cheese rising from the frying pan.

"Edward—Edward," I murmured around his lips. He pulled away, looking sleepy and turned-on. I nodded over to the stove.

"Oh, shit." He pulled the pan off the heat and took the top skillet off. I hopped down and, straightening my shirt, walked over to help him. Sure enough, there was a quarter-sized pool of blackened, melted Cheddar around one of the corners.

"No big deal." I sliced it off, then cut the sandwich in half diagonally.

"I think that's the first thing I've seen you burn," he said as he handed me a plate.

"Asshole, I didn't burn shit! _You_ were in charge." I grabbed a paper towel and stalked off. Just for that, we were watching _The Princess Bride_ next.

"Aw, baby, don't be mad. I was just teasing."

I knew that, but it wouldn't hurt to pretend to be angry for a bit longer. I sat on the couch and took a big bite of my _unburnt_ sandwich. I wasn't going to share, either.

"Bella? I'm sorry." He knelt in front of me and caught my gaze. I sighed and put my sandwich down.

"It's a point of pride."

Edward smiled and nodded. He rose and walked over to his DVD cabinet. Without asking, he held up the very movie I'd had in mind for his punishment. I nodded again and he popped it in the player.

By the third _Inconceivable!_, Edward and I were asleep, wrapped around each other and content.


	11. 11 Entremets

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Entremets**

An entremet [ehn-truh-may] (or entremets, from Old French, literally meaning "between servings") is in modern French cuisine a small, light dish served between courses or simply a dessert. According to Larousse Gastronomique, the word _entremet_ indicates the "sweet course" which is always served after the "cheese course" in France. Entremet is also used to describe a specific dessert, a cake made of differently textured layers: cake, cream, crunch, jelly, and mousse. Three layers are typical, but an Entremets can have as many as seven.

Fruit, nuts, and olives can also be served as an entremets course, to cleanse the palate after the cheese course and before the dessert course.

Sautéed Figs with Ricotta

6 fresh figs, trimmed and cut in half

2 tbsp balsamic vinegar

4 -6 tsp brown sugar

1/8 tsp cinnamon

1/2 C low-fat ricotta cheese

1/2 tbsp sugar

1 tsp fresh lemon zest

Combine the ricotta cheese, sugar, and lemon zest in a bowl and refrigerate for a few hours if you have the time. Combine the figs, vinegar, brown sugar, and cinnamon in a bowl. Let marinate 10 - 15 minutes. Heat a non-stick skillet over medium heat and add the figs and sauce. Cook for a few minutes, until the sauce thickens slightly. For each serving, spoon 1/3 of the ricotta in the center of a dessert plate or bowl. Then arrange 4 fig halves around the ricotta, and drizzle with sauce.

M-e-P

I focused on smoothing out the chocolate glaçage with quick, sure strokes of my spatula—I refused to look at the clock _again_. Edward would be home from his last day of stunt training tonight. On the fridge calendar—which I was also trying not to look at—the date a week from today was circled in red, with SHOOTING — VANCOUVER written over the next three weeks. This wasn't the first time he'd shot on location since I started working for him, and it wasn't the first time I'd miss him while he was gone. I'd never missed him quite so much as I expect I will this time, though.

He was still technically on a diet for shooting, but he'd been working so damn hard and deserved a reward. Hence the complicated French Entremet I was glazing, my lip firmly between my teeth. Edward and his sweet tooth would love it, even if he couldn't really appreciate the technical skill involved with making a three-layer cake, the mousse filling, and a fondant shell covered in glaze. Edward was worth it.

I'd barely seen him all month. He left the house at four a.m., long before I even arrived, and routinely didn't get back until after nine, even on the weekends. We'd had another "date," but he fell asleep right after dinner. He only woke up enough to shuffle to bed, apologizing profusely before he passed out again. Every night, he'd chatter about his day, gesturing with his fork as he wolfed his meal down. I'd kiss him when he got home and before I left for the night. My drives home were spent reliving those kisses and trying not to let disappointment eat away at me. Because we hadn't done much more than kissing. That would change tonight. I hoped.

The cake was as perfect as a savory chef could get it, so I finally allowed myself to check the time. Damn, he'd be home soon. I slid the cake onto the lowest shelf in the fridge, making sure there were a few inches of space on all sides. With two fingers, I nudged the door closed.

If I started now, Edward would be home just in time for the filets to be medium-rare. Perfect.

He wasn't home yet when I pulled the steaks out of the oven. Should I change? I should change.

At eight p.m., I was in a new outfit and still waiting. The filets were cold, but I could reheat them without too much trouble. I was still alone at nine. I called him—straight to voicemail. He must still be working. At ten, I called him again. Voicemail.

I wrapped the filets in foil, each fold crisp and square. I added a pat of butter to the bottom of his. I put the potatoes on a microwave-safe plate and covered them with cling wrap. The asparagus went in a tupperware. The meal went into the fridge, above the Entremet, and I drove myself home.

—

Worry and fatigue blended into a pervasive, bodily ache. My throat was thick, heavy with something I couldn't swallow down. My gut twisted. Edward was all right. Someone would call me if something went wrong. Wouldn't they? Probably. Eventually.

I picked up my phone. I put it down again. I vacillated between Edward's mom's number and Victoria's. We'd been dating for what, two months? Was I really going to be the clingy, naggy girlfriend, checking up on him? No. That wasn't me.

Still, I was too nauseated to eat anything real for dinner, but something in my stomach would probably make me feel better. The taste of the Entremet's dark cocoa—mysterious and burnt—sat on the back of my tongue and hung in my nose. I wanted something sweet—sweetness to counter the bitter bile in my nervous stomach and the acid trickling through my veins from my heart.

I called again. Voicemail again.

I _needed_ something sweet. There were some Mission figs in a bowl on my counter. I searched my cabinets, shutting off my mind and letting my flavor-sense flow. Spice to deepen; cinnamon, brown sugar. Balsamic and lemon to lend an edge, the bitterness that makes one appreciate the fruit. Sweet needs a little salt, seasoning to make it more itself... I took a half-empty tub of ricotta cheese out of the fridge. Rich, creamy, and smooth, it'd anchor the figs.

_Anchored_ would feel good right about now, too.

I prepared my light meal, only my hands involved in the task. Why was I so anxious? I looked around my kitchen, the one that was actually mine. The walls were bare, a utilitarian off-white color I told myself I'd paint over but never did. No notes on the fridge. There was an old TV in the corner, the only real sign of habitation—even it was a little dusty. When did this place—my house—become a way-station instead of a home? Fuck. I'd been alone since culinary school, but I'd never felt lonely until I fell in love with Edward.

I ate my meal standing at the counter. The room was silent.

—

My phone ringing a little after midnight woke me up. Edward was calling. I tried to shake off my grogginess as I answered.

"'Lo?"

"Heyyyyyyy, Bella. Where are ya?" Was he drunk?

"I'm at home, where the fuck do you think I am?"

"You're s'posed to be at the club with me! We're celebrating!"

"What club? Why? Celebrating what?" I sat up and turned the light on. Fuck, ouch. I blinked until my eyes adjusted.

"Vicky called you! Didn't Vicky call you?"

"No, Vicky did not call me. Edward… you're at a club? You never go to clubs anymore."

"I know, baby, but we're done and headed to butt-fuck nowhere for a month, it's time for a party!"

"Vancouver is hardly BFN." God, how much did I _not _want to go to a club right now? If Edward was already drunk, he'd be well on his way to smashed by the time I even got there…

"No, no, no-no-no. Not Vancouver anymore. Romania, found out last week. Remember? Something about the trees, I don't fucking know. Mmm, Bella, I've been thinking about you all night…" Glasses clinked together and Edward took a harsh breath. Ah, shit. He was doing shots.

Wait. "What the fuck, Romania?! _Romania_?! The calendar says Vancouver." How many times had I looked at it today? The past week? I pulled my phone away from my ear and flipped through to my Calendar app there. It still says Vancouver, leaving a week from tomorrow.

"Yeah. Didn't I tell you about that? I thought I told you about that. Oh, wait." That annoying sound of a hand muffling a phone's mouthpiece hurt my ears. I rolled, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and put my feet on the floor. The Mexican tile was cold and rough against the soles of my feet.

"Uh, Vicky says sorry, she forgot to sync her calendar with yours."

Bullshit. That bitch didn't forget anything. It seemed that Victoria did more than passively disapprove of me.

"What about you? Aren't you sorry? Shouldn't _you_ have told me this—that your destination and departure changed—Edward?"

I could hear him sobering up over the phone. The music grew fainter, the background chatter faded away.

"Shit. Yes, I—I'm sorry. I thought I did? I'll come home right now. I'll be there in twen—"

"No." My eyes prickled. My throat was cottony and tight.

"What?"

"No. When I said _home_, I meant _my_ home. I'm at my house. And I'm not leaving."

"I'll come there." He sounded a little desperate. Good.

"No. I don't want you anywhere near me. Enjoy your party."

I hung up and turned the phone off. That wasn't dramatic enough, so I threw it into a drawer in my bedside table and slammed it shut.

"Ugh." I rubbed my hand over my face. The salt-water scratched my skin. I lay down again. Fuck this. Fuck _him_. I had three weeks of—essentially—paid vacation coming up now. After that, I was gone.

Edward was across town; he already felt half a world away.

**AN:** Thank you, every single one, for reading and reviewing. I may not always be able to reply, but I cherish every word.


	12. 12 Dessert

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Dessert**

Dessert is the usually sweet course that concludes a meal. This definition includes a range of courses anywhere from fruits or dried nuts to multi-ingredient cakes and pies. Dessert is known the world over as being the only real point of eating a healthy meal.

The first apple pie recipe was printed in 1381, and the first cupcake recipe was printed in 1740.

Meyer Lemon Cake with Lavender Buttercream

Cake:

2 tbsp unsalted butter, melted, for brushing pan

5 large eggs, separated

3/4 C sugar, divided

3/4 C extra-virgin olive oil

1 tbsp grated Meyer lemon zest

3 tablespoons Meyer lemon juice

1 C cake flour (not self-rising)

1/2 tsp salt

Lemon filling:

1/2 C plus 1 tbsp sugar

3 tbsps all-purpose flour

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp grated Meyer lemon zest plus 3/4 C Meyer lemon juice

1 large egg yolk

1 tbsp unsalted butter

Lavender buttercream:

1 C milk

3 tbsp food grade lavender flowers

1/2 C butter, softened

About 5 C powdered sugar

Salt

For the cake: Preheat oven to 325°F. Prepare a springform pan with butter, chill; line with parchment paper; butter, chill again; dust with flour. Beat together yolks and 1/2 C sugar in a large bowl with an electric mixer on high until pale and thick. At medium speed, beat in oil, lemon zest, and juice. Sift in flour and mix at low speed. Beat whites with salt in another large bowl with cleaned beaters at medium-high speed until foamy, then add remaining 1/4 cup sugar a little at a time, beating until whites hold soft peaks. Fold one third of whites into yolk mixture, then fold in remaining whites. Transfer batter to springform pan. Bake until golden brown and a wooden pick inserted in center of cake comes out clean, 40-50 mins. Cool cake to room temperature.

For the lemon filling: Whisk together sugar, flour, and salt in a small heavy saucepan, then add lemon juice in a slow stream, whisking until combined. Bring to a boil, then simmer, whisking constantly, until thickened. Remove from heat. Whisk yolk in a small bowl, then add about one fourth of lemon-juice mixture, whisking vigorously. Add into remaining lemon-juice mixture and gently boil, whisking, 1 minute. Remove from heat and stir in butter and zest. Transfer filling to a bowl and cover with buttered parchment paper. Chill.

For the lavender buttercream: Create a lavender tea bag with a coffee filter and twine. Pour milk over tea bag in a small saucepan. Bring to a simmer over low heat. Just as the milk begins to bubble, remove from heat and let steep for 10-15 mins. Let cool completely. Beat butter and 2 tbsp of the milk together. Beat in a hearty pinch of salt. Add 2.5 C of powdered sugar and beat until well incorporated. Begin alternating between additions of more sugar (about a half cup at a time) and adding more milk (a couple of teaspoons at a time). You can use gel food coloring to tint the frosting. Place frosting in a Tupperware container and chill in fridge.

To assemble the cake: Invert cake and discard parchment. Use the standard three-layer method to slice and fill the cake. Frost the cake with the buttercream, then chill. After 15 mins, it will have formed a crust. Use a high-quality paper towel to _gently_ buff the wrinkles out of the buttercream until it's smooth.

M-e-P

If this was weird, I'd quit. I would quit. If it was weird. How could it not be weird?

My paper towel made gentle, _shush_ing noises on the buttercream as I smoothed it. The sound was advice and a salve all at once. I buffed out every wrinkle I could find, erased every blemish. This cake would be perfect. No one would mistake my work for an amateur's. I was a professional.

I wiped the counters down: long, exact strokes from the backsplash to the edge, making sure every stray grain of flour or icing sugar ended up in my cupped hand. Everything was clean. After I brushed my hands off and wiped them with a towel, I slid my finished cake back into the fridge, into the same space I'd cleared for the Entremet a month earlier. It wasn't his favorite recipe—no dark chocolate, no red fruit. The light, lavender-lemon cake was _my _favorite. It'd taken me hours to make.

I'd quit like I told myself I would, go back to being a restaurant chef like I'd planned. Work the hot line. My stomach clenched. He'd still write me that recommendation, right? He'd have to. After three years of performing my duties perfectly, of course he'd have to.

I glanced at the clock. Edward would be touching down in eight hours. I sighed. Time to go grocery shopping.

"Bella."

I whirled around. Standing in the doorway, holding his overstuffed messenger bag and a coat, was—oh! _Edward_. He looked like shit: dark circles under his eyes, stooped shoulders, wrinkled t-shirt.

"You're early." Jesus. I don't see the guy for a month and that's the best I can do?

"I caught an earlier flight. I… I couldn't stay away, be apart from you any more." He paused and shifted his weight from foot to foot. The distance between us felt much greater than the actual ten-or-so feet.

In my mind, I replayed the dozens of phone calls, text messages, and voicemails he'd made while he was gone. At first, I just declined his calls. Ignored his ass. He persisted, and I let him have a few seconds—just long enough to say _Bella, I'm sorry_ before I hung up. My insides twisted each time. As much as it felt good to vent my frustrations, I wanted that feeling of balance that came from being close with him. By the end of the second week, I let him apologize for a few minutes. Then five. Then ten. He explained about Victoria, that she felt I wasn't a 'smart move for his career,' which is to say, I wasn't famous enough. When he told me he'd fired her, I accepted his apologies. I made it clear that wasn't the same as actually forgiving him.

That goddamned silence stretched on, and I opened my mouth to ask for a reference, to tell him I loved him, to beg him to _say something for fuck's sake_. His eyes were burning, the green even darker against the purple shadows underneath. The look he gave me pinned me in place, a butterfly in a curio cabinet—but the words he spoke set me free again, fluttering away.

"That was the longest fucking month of my life. I felt like I left a part of myself here with you. Never again, Bella. I swear to God, I'll never do something that stupid again. Just, please, baby, please... don't leave me. I'm so, _so_ fucking sorry."

My breath whooshed out of me. Edward dropped his things and took a step forward—paused—then three more long, quick strides and we were finally, _finally_ touching again. He wrapped his arms around me and pressed his face against my shoulder. When my body met his again, a month-long ache in my chest evaporated. A seeping warmth replaced it, milky Earl Grey on a cold morning.

Edward kissed my shoulder on either side of my tank top strap and up my neck. He licked his lips—the lightest flick of the tip of his tongue brushed against my collarbone—and groaned.

"You taste sweeter than usual."

"Baking." I placed my palms against the sides of his stomach and slid them around until I held him in a loose embrace.

"For me?"

"You never got the cake I made… before."

Edward pulled back and nodded, eyes cast down. "I'm such an asshole."

"Yeah."

"I fucked up."

"Yeah."

"D'you think you can forgive me?"

"Eventually."

He looked at me, searching. God, I'd missed him. Fuck it all, but I did.

He kissed me, and I tasted the _sorry_ in the flavor of his lips. The sweetness of reunion swirled around us. His tongue stroked mine and firecracker-bursts of red burned behind my eyelids. I moaned, tilted my head, and opened my mouth wider to him. His shoulders were deliciously solid and strong beneath my hands, so I flattened my palms against the breadth of them to touch him with every possible inch of my skin.

A familiar hard surface appeared under my ass. "No," I murmured against his lips. "No counters. Bed."

"Oh God," he groaned. He pulled back. "I swear, Bella, I will get you in my bed as soon as fucking possible, but I have to tell you something first, and you have to be on this counter for me to do it."

My heartbeat quickened. I tried to calm my breathing, but I still sounded like I had just run a mile or ten. Edward was giving me _that look_, the one I used to hate. _That look_ used to twist my insides in confusion and taunt my heart with what couldn't be. It would make tiny, fantastical whispers of _maybe_ and _if only_ skitter through my mind. It beckoned me across that gap between employer and employee… the gap that, though smaller than ever, still stretched between us. My heart prickled, cut by the knife's edge it was balanced on.

But now, I only felt a thrill, looking in his eyes. I bit my lip and he looked like he might devour me again. He shook his head.

"Bella…"

I held my breath again.

"I love you." He put his hands on either side of my face to hold my gaze. As if I'd look anywhere else. "I love you. So much. I know it took me too long to figure it out, and too long to get my shit together after that. But I'm in love with you, so fucking in love with you, and you have to know that."

I stared at him. An explosion rocked through my chest and I sighed raggedly. The gentle comfort of his presence was replaced—obliterated—by this intense, bright, lightness. It burned from my heart, through my veins, until it tingled in my fingertips. Knowing Edward loved me _too_ was like peppermint in my blood; I was trembling, fresh with energy.

"Say something, please." Edward was looking a little panicked. I chuckled. Fucking with him a bit crossed my mind, but I couldn't keep myself waiting any longer.

"I love you, too." I beamed at him. Relieved, Edward laughed. He pressed his lips to mine again. The kiss didn't deepen, despite my teasing licks at his bottom lip. We were both smiling too much.

"The counter?" I asked.

"It's sentimental." When he kissed me this time, and I licked his lip again, he did open up for me. I sucked on the tip of his tongue. He tasted like airline coffee and Scope. He grunted and his hips snapped forward. Liked that, huh? His hand slid around my ribs to cup my breast, and we had to get off this counter or we were going to fuck on it.

"Not for our first time," I murmured in between kisses.

"Huh?" He circled my nipple, hard against my shirt, with his thumb.

"Edward, take me upstairs. Now."

He grinned. I loved it when Edward grinned. He helped me slip off the counter—only to throw me over his shoulder. I laughed the whole trip up the stairs.

**AN:** While I was at TFMU, both _Mise-en-Place_ and _A Bullet from Chekhov's Gun_ surpassed 1,000 reviews. I'm stunned and amazed. To celebrate this incredible milestone, I'd like to do something special. Is there something you'd like me to write? A futuretake/sideshot/alternate POV for either story? Just an _ABFCG_ update, period? Something else? This is democracy in action, folks. Let me know in a review or ping me on Twitter. I'll take the best idea and run with it.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.


	13. 13 Café

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Café**

The most popular of the several legends surrounding the origin of coffee is that of the goatherd, Kaldi. Kaldi, noticing that when his flock nibbled on the bright red berries of a certain bush they became more energetic, chewed on the fruit himself. His exhilaration prompted him to bring the berries to an Islamic holy man in a nearby monastery. But the holy man disapproved of their use and threw them into a fire, from which an enticing aroma billowed. The roasted beans were quickly raked from the embers, ground up, and dissolved in hot water, yielding the world's first cup of coffee.

Café à l'Orange

6 oz freshly brewed French roast coffee

Peel from 1/8th of a sweet orange

1/2 pint heavy cream, cold

Steep the orange peel in the hot coffee for five minutes. In the meantime, shake the cream in a sealed container until it starts to thicken. Discard the orange peel. Spoon the cream onto the coffee to taste.

M-e-P

Edward's body behind mine was warmer than the bathwater that surrounded us at this point, but I didn't want to move. Neroli oil had risen on a cloud of steam earlier, and fell in the finest mist as that steam faded away. It covered my skin and coated the inside of my nose. His fingertips glided over my wet skin, running over bone and muscle, studying. My breath sped. Tiny waves broke against our legs and the sides of the tub.

I tried not to think about where Edward got bath oil—tried not to think of it having been Tanya's—but my spine stiffened regardless.

"How are you feeling? Still sore?"

"Mmm." I was so sick of my doubts. I didn't want them to rule me anymore. I was here now, not her. It was my body Edward was caressing.

"Much better," I said. I smiled. After I'd told Edward how long it'd been for me, he calmed down, and our first time was slow, but intense. The second and third times were more… enthusiastic. This morning, I couldn't hide my flinch as his fingers slipped between my legs. Edward suggested a bath.

"Good. I'm sorry…"

"I loved every second."

He was getting hard behind me—he'd enjoyed it too. Edward nibbled on the shell of my ear.

"Getting hungry?"

Edward nodded and slid his hands up my arms, over my collarbones, and down to my breasts. "Yeah."

"For food," I groaned.

"That too." He kissed down my neck.

"We should get out."

"Yeah." Kisses on my shoulder. He massaged the flesh of my breasts, ignoring my tingling nipples. The asshole knew exactly what he was doing, too. I squirmed.

"I mean it." My voice sounded way too petulant to be taken seriously. "I'll make you something to eat."

"Mmhmm…"

"I'll make you…"

"Baby, please." He stopped rubbing me, and I didn't like that at all. Edward shifted me in his arms, moving me to the side. I looked up at his face. The growing chill of the water, the soreness in my thighs, every unpleasant thought of postponing our activities was shoved to the back of my mind. Arousal, warm and diffuse, was percolating within me again. I didn't know if I could handle any more, but goddamn it, I wanted to find out.

"You're always taking care of me," he continued. "Let me take care of you right now."

I nodded. How could I not?

Edward stood. Water flowed down his body, rivulets beading and trickling through the channels between his muscles. I tried to ignore his cock, thick and swelling in front of me. I took his offered hand instead.

He led me back into his bedroom. The sheets were mussed, rumpled; the comforter hung off the edge of the mattress.

"Lay down."

Edward's million-thread-count sheets were cool and smooth against my skin. He crawled over me, then lowered his body onto mine. His stomach slid over my belly, his hips fit between mine. He rocked into me, pushing his cock through my pussy lips.

I wanted him, and it was rapidly becoming unimportant that I was too sore to have him.

Edward smoothed his fingertips over the creases in my forehead. "Shh, baby, relax. I won't go inside."

My muscles relaxed, but I wasn't as boneless as I was before. Edward shifted his weight to one arm and slipped his fingers into my hair. He pulled out the clip I'd put in before our bath.

"I won't hurt you again," he said. Butter-yellow light from the bedside lamp cast his form in soft shadows, highlights and lowlights. Edward leaned down and kissed my neck. His hair flopped forward, still damp, and tickled my skin. I sighed through a smile. He kissed down my neck, over my shoulder, and across my chest, pushing himself onto his knees. I looked down and watched his muscles flex as he bent to lick a nipple. He closed his eyes and sucked. _Oh_. He palmed my other breast with his hand and pulled on my nipple in time with his sucking.

"Oh, fuck." I dropped my head.

Edward licked down my torso, one long line from my breast bone to my navel. He dragged his hands along the same path. My back arched.

"As much as I love your cooking, Bella," he said. He slid his arms under my legs, my knees over his shoulders, and reared back, pulling my lower body up with him. I scrambled to put my palms flat on the bed, and wrapped my legs around his neck. Edward's hands were flat on my belly, holding me steady.

He took one long lick of me and said, "This will always be my favorite thing to eat."

Edward flattened his tongue against my clit and rubbed in slow, wide circles. His tongue was warm, wet, and too soft.

"God, harder, _please_."

Edward chuckled against me, but continued his slow licking. I squirmed. Why was he teasing me? He kept me still—I couldn't get closer, no matter how hard I wriggled. He looked down at me.

"I'm savoring you, baby."

Well, when you put it that way... I gave up. I let my legs and back relax. Only Edward's strength held me up. I was in his power. A primal thrill shot through me.

"Yes, just like that," he murmured. I moaned. Sensations started to blend together—blood was rushing to my head and everything felt more intense. Tingly pleasure rolled through me. How long had it been? Five minutes? More, less?

Edward gripped me tighter with one arm and reached down to my breast with the other. I was warm, so warm. My breath rushed in and out of my lungs.

He gave me what I wanted: faster, tight circles with his tongue. He massaged my breast, tugging and rolling my nipple. Edward grazed my clit with his teeth.

I was approaching my climax, and I didn't even think about holding back. I cried out for him. He was humming against me. Edward closed his lips around my clit and sucked. That was it. I came. My orgasm rolled over me, dragging me along in the undertow.

When I opened my eyes, I was flat on the bed again. Edward was stretched out beside me, arms around me, holding me as I trembled. He kissed me, long and deep and hard. I held him as tight as my weak arms could.

"I love you, Bella."

"I love you, too."

I dozed off, safe in his embrace. Warm and content.


	14. 14 Digestif

MISE-EN-PLACE

**Legal BS:** The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2013 CallMePagliacci. All rights reserved.

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Digestif**

As the name implies, a _digestif_ [dee-jest-eef] is an alcoholic after-dinner drink thought to aid digestion. Most bitter digestifs have carminative herbs, which alleviate gastrointestinal distress. Digestifs are usually taken straight. Common kinds of digestif include brandy (Cognac, Armagnac, Calvados, alambric, etc.), eaux de vie (fruit brandies), a pomace brandy (like grappa), various bitter or sweet liqueurs (like Drambuie, amari, Chartreuse, Grand Marnier, Irish Mist, Kahlua or limoncello), and other distilled liquors (ouzo, tequila, whisky or akvavit), or a liquor cocktail, such as a Black Russian (Kahlua and vodka) or a Rusty Nail (Scotch and Drambuie).

Belle of the Ball

3/4 oz Baileys with a Hint of Hazelnut liqueur

1/2 oz Bertrams VO Brandy

1/4 oz Averna

1/4 oz Yellow Chartreuse

Dash of mole bitters

Candied hazelnuts for garnish

Combine liquors in a cocktail shaker, shake, and serve in a coupé glass. Garnish with a skewer of candied hazelnuts.

M-e-P

"Holy shit, Edward."

The front of the restaurant was lit up, spotlights pointing skyward. A Santa Ana wind was blowing, quite the omen for a restaurant opening. Traveler's palms lined the outer walls of Wild-flower—their fronds shook in the dry gusts.

Photographers milled around, snapping pictures of foodies, socialites, and B-list celebrities as they walked down the small red carpet. The red carpet Edward and I were about to walk. Together. As in, as a couple. Publicly.

I took a deep breath. When Garrett had called to tell me he'd finally gotten that executive chef position, I said, 'Of course I'll support you.' But I'd thought that meant I'd go with other friends from culinary school, or even alone. Not dolled-up and escorted by Edward and a bodyguard.

Edward squeezed my hand. "We don't have to do this…"

"No. No, Angie's right. We have to make this happen on our terms." Edward's new manager was quite an improvement. Angie had an official statement prepared. She was gonna get a fuckton of calls in a minute.

_Edward Cullen confirms his relationship with Isabella Swan, 26. Ms. Swan is a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America. She is currently employed as a personal chef._

"Bella," Edward said. His fingertips trailed along my jaw, coaxing my head around and towards him. He was smiling at me. "Baby, thank you for this. I love just hanging around the house with you, but… I don't want to hide you anymore. Hide us."

He leaned in and closed his eyes.

"No, no!" I _hated_ denying Edward kisses, but I didn't want to smudge my makeup. Or muss my hair. It'd taken the lady Angie hired over an hour to make me look like the type of woman that usually graced Edward's arm. "My lipstick," I explained.

"You look beautiful."

I smoothed my hem, just above my knee. The midnight blue fabric made me feel a bit mysterious. Sexy. It made me feel like I believed him.

"I feel a little like Cinderella," I murmured. "The maid going to the grand ball."

Edward chuckled. "Cinderella was a bimbo. You've got smarts. And you're hotter than her, too."

"Hotter?" The corner of my mouth hitched up.

"Way hotter."

"Thank you." I ran my hand down his lapel. My fingers trailed towards his belt buckle and he grabbed my hand.

"Just as soon as we get home," he said. He kissed my knuckles. "Maybe in the car on the way there."

I looked deep into his patina-green eyes and my stomach fluttered. "We're skipping dessert."

"I can think of something much better to eat, anyways." Edward smiled, the smile I ever got to see.

"Yes—I mean, let's go." I didn't care how good the food was, Edward was better.

"Okay." Edward squeezed my hand before letting go. "Remember, you'll want to blink, to flinch away. Force your eyes to stay open. Look at some point beyond the paps. Smile. And, uh, keep your knees together when you get out of the car."

I rolled my eyes. We'd been over this. "Go get my door, Edward."

"One last thing. Don't let go of my hand."

Edward got out and walked around to open my door. Deep breath. I stepped into the chaos.

I never let go of his hand.


End file.
